By a Simple Twist of Fate
by kslchen
Summary: Remember fairy tales? Where every problem is immediately resolved once the girl falls in love with the prince? Well, the fairy tales lied. Because falling in love with the prince was easy. It was only afterwards that things got tough.
1. An invitation you can't decline

**By a Simple Twist of Fate**

 _Before anyone says anything, I fully realise that I promised you a companion piece to 'Through the Dark Clouds shining'. This… isn't that. In fact, it's an entirely different story. I swear that I'm not done with my personal DC universe (I_ will _get to that companion one day), but it turns out that even I need a break from writing war stories at times. Who knew, right? (Not me. I was as surprised as anyone.) At any rate, the outcome of that is this little story (though time will tell how 'little' it turns out to be in the end). I know it's different from what I usually write. I know it might even sound a bit silly and frivolous at first. I understand if that's not your thing. I sincerely hope that you'll decide to give it a try anyway. (There's less people dying, so that might be an argument for giving it a shot?)_

 _This is the first long story I'm writing in English outright (which also means there's no German version out there, for anyone who wanted to go snooping – sorry for that!), so I am ever more indebted to my amazingly lovely beta readers,_ oz diva _and_ Alinyaalethia _. They supported me for a large part of this story and made sure that the first five or six dozen chapters are (hopefully) free of mistakes and typos and bad grammar and weird phrasing and the odd archaic word. Let's all praise and thank them for their effort, yes? And as for the latter part of the story, please forgive any mistakes I haven't found on my own. I'm doing my best!  
_

 _With the writing and editing work done, it's over to you. Since my last story was a translation, it was basically a finished piece already. This one, however, is very much a work in progress. Where I had little opportunity to take into account your comments with 'Dark Clouds', I value them even more here. I'm really looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this story and take them on board during the writing process. I therefore welcome any and all comments, be it praise (everyone loves a bit of praise, after all) or questions or honest criticism or whatever else you come up with – if you're using a signed account, you're also almost guaranteed a reply in return, so be warned ;)._

 _To prevent any confusion, please also note that this is, in fact, a modern AU. That means I took everyone and transplanted them firmly into the 21_ _st_ _century. As I am very much a writer of historical stories, this is a new concept for me, but one that should be quite fun. I also juggled everyone's ages around a bit, but don't worry – it's nothing major and anyway, it should all become clear soon enough. Oh,_ and _I've taken the liberty to create an absolutely and entirely new British Royal Family, which you will all get to meet soon enough!_

 _And now, on to a story you likely never thought you'd ever get to read…_

* * *

 _New York City, USA  
October 2010_

 **An invitation you can't decline**

Once upon a time, there was an especially virulent case of stomach flu.

Not particularly deadly, mind, but nasty nonetheless. The 'hits you out of nowhere' kind. The kind that has people storming along corridors in search of restrooms, with others suddenly turning a worrying shade of green on the subway. New York, without a doubt, has been held firmly in its grasp for several weeks already. And having only just recovered from my own brush with it, I am naturally inclined to sympathise with anyone similarly befallen.

Not so Izzie.

Izzie is my niece. She's almost three and a half (the 'half' part being of vital importance here) and basically consists of 34 pounds of pure, undiluted _opinion_. With two lawyers for parents, she was encouraged to argue her point from an early age. Personally, I don't think Joy and Dan foresaw quite what a little monster they were unleashing upon the world.

Right now, Izzie is happily skipping along the pavement by my side, gleefully regaling me with the tale of how a boy called Brian emptied the contents of his stomach all over the breakfast table at kindergarten today. Her deep satisfaction at the unfortunate boy's misfortune appears to be enough to cancel out a certain disgust at this occurrence. Besides, from what I gather, boys are icky anyway, so apparently such behaviour is par for the course for them.

"But Brian probably felt very poorly, darling," I interject gently, mostly because I'm feeling that someone _should_.

Izzie stops skipping. She peers up at me, her expression veering between disbelief and betrayal. "He ripped off Violet's doll's head yesterday!" she informs me indignantly, obviously considering Brian's vomiting experience to be just punishment for such a travesty.

Which… she has a point, I must admit that. That _does_ sound like karma alright.

Still. It's not like I can actually _say_ that, is it?

"That… that wasn't very nice of him," I admit carefully. "But we still don't want to laugh at him feeling poorly, do we?"

Judging from Izzie's expression, yes, we do want to laugh at him feeling poorly and besides, I have also just revealed myself to be very boring and irrevocably grown up (which is laughable, really). Apparently deciding that I am thus not to be trusted, Izzie gives me one last look of betrayal, then turns and stomps off, making me hurry to haste after her. (My new shoes are cute, but admittedly half a size too small – in my defence though, they _were_ on sale!)

Thankfully, we've almost reached Dan and Joy's place, so I don't have to torment my feet for very much longer. Even so, Izzie is at least three steps ahead of me the entire way and the moment I've unlocked the door to their apartment, she barrels past my legs towards the kitchen.

"Mummy! Mummy! Brian threw up all over breakfast today!" she excitedly calls out.

Joy, having heard us enter, appears in the kitchen doorway just in time to pick Izzie up before she collides with something. "Serves him right for destroying little Violet's doll," she replies placidly, giving her daughter a cuddle.

Really?

Why am I even _trying_?

"Sometimes I wonder how you ever got admitted to any bar at all, much less two," I inform my sister as I shut the front door behind me and kick off my pinching shoes with a feeling that is part regret and part relief.

"Cause and effect, Rilla darling. Cause and effect," counters Joy and grins at me in such a way that leaves little doubt as to Izzie's parentage.

I roll my eyes at her, making her laugh. Izzie, meanwhile, is already squirming to be let down again and the moment her feet touch the ground, she makes a beeline for her room, shedding shoes and coat and backpack as she moves.

Joy looks after her affectionately for a moment, before turning to walk back into the kitchen. Enticed by the delectable smells wafting from the room, I can do little but follow.

"What's for dinner?" I enquire, leaning closer to the various pots and pans bubbling on the stove to get a better look. As with anything Joy cooks, it looks absolutely delicious.

"For you, chicken broth," she declares drily.

I turn to stare at her incredulously, but no, she appears to be serious. "But _Joy_!" I whine.

She shakes her head. "No arguing. You were ill, and your stomach isn't yet up to holding too much rich food. Chicken broth it is!"

I try a pout, but three and a half years of raising Izzie have made Joy immune to any such tactics. She meets my gaze, calm but unwavering, and even with a stained apron thrown on over her fancy lady lawyer costume and with her up-do slowly becoming undone, it isn't hard to imagine what she looks like in a courtroom.

With a sigh, I give in. Joy pats my cheek encouragingly. "There's a good girl. Now go wash your hands," she orders. "Dinner will be ready in ten."

So much for being grown up.

I move to do as I am told, but then stop in the doorway and turn. "Is Jake still ill?" I ask.

Joy nods. "He's feeling a little better, but still pretty wretched. I'm definitely keeping him home again tomorrow," she answers.

And so, instead of heading for the bathroom, I make my way towards Jake's room at the other end of the apartment.

Softly opening the door, I can see Jake lying in his bed, immersed in a book.

"Hey Huckleberry Jake," I greet him, using the nickname derived in a long-ago summer, when he was four and I was fifteen and we spent many an hour sailing the Mississippi River together.

Jake lowers his book and gives me a small smile. "Hey."

He is, there's no denying it, the polar opposite of his sister. Where Izzie is loud, Jake is quiet. Where Izzie is constantly demanding attention, Jake is used to blending into the background. Joy says he simply takes after his father and I'm sure there's truth to that. But, having been born when both his parents had only just finished their first year of university, Jake also had to learn early how to fit in. A more loved child could hardly be imagined, but he was undeniably shuffled around a lot in his early years.

"What are you reading?" I enquire, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

" _I don't want no better book than what your face is_ ," quotes Jake without missing a beat, obviously pleased at his retort.

"What a little charmer you're turning out to be," I declare with a laugh and ruffle his hair. When, grinning in response, he raises his book, I am unsurprised to find myself looking at _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_.

"Your mum said you are feeling a little better today?" I ask, touching a gentle hand to his cheek. He still looks pretty pale in the half-light of the room but does, indeed, appear to feel a little better than yesterday.

"A bit," nods Jake. Then, as an afterthought, "I ate three quarters of a cracker for lunch."

"An admirable feat," I confirm seriously.

It is, too. When the flu felled me last week, the mere _thought_ of food was enough to make me nauseous for at least three days in a row.

"You can have another one if you're feeling up to it," comes the offer from the other side of the room. Both Jake and I look up to see Joy standing in the doorway.

For a moment, Jake seems to consider it, then slowly shakes his head. "Maybe later." His slight grimace leaves little doubt as to the fact that the first cracker (or the three quarters of it, if we're being technical) didn't agree with him all that well.

"Alright" replies Joy, gazing it him affectionately. "But if you need anything, just tell me."

"I will. Thanks, mum," assures Jake with a smile.

Turning to me, Joy adds, "If I can interest _you_ in some food, dinner is ready now."

I'm already up on my feet. I'd never snub at anything Joy cooked, even if it's plain chicken broth.

"But don't forget to wash your hands!" warns Joy as she turns to leave.

Catching Jake's eye, I do my most expressive eye roll, causing him to stifle a laugh. I smile conspiratorially, then give his shoulder a little squeeze. "See you later, Huck."

Jakes does his best impression of appearing solemn. "After a while, Crocodile" he nods. Which isn't quite how _that_ exchange goes, as he well knows, but I guess it's close enough.

After having done as told and given my hands a wash, I take my place at the dinner table, where Joy is already trying to get a squirming Izzie to sit still in her chair.

"Is Dan still at work?" I ask while ladling some chicken broth into a bowl, though not without eyeing the other delicacies on the table envyingly. Still, I know better than to argue with Joy once she's made up her mind. You need to know to pick your battles and this is not a battle anyone can win.

"He called earlier to say he's on his way," answers Joy. She put some vegetables on Izzie's plate, causing the girl to pull a frightful grimace. If she had her way, Izzie's diet would consist solely of chocolate.

"Well, he'd better hurry, right? Tonight's the big night, after all," I point out, raising both eyebrows.

Dan, it should be explained, works for the UN and has been invited to attend a reception for promising young UN employees tonight. It's a pretty big thing and, apart from everything else, it's also the reason for why he and Joy called on my babysitting services for the evening.

Joy visibly perks up at this. "What a _coincidence_ that you should mention it!" she declares in a voice that leaves little doubt as to the fact that she has really been waiting for me to broach the topic ever since I first entered the apartment.

I eye her warily. "What do you want?"

"Why so suspicious?" laughs Joy. "Don't you trust your big sister?"

"No," I answer shortly. "Now tell. What do you want?"

"So _impatient_ ," murmurs Joy, still visibly amused. Then, with a side glance at her daughter, "Just so that we're clear, Isabella – you _will_ eat everything on your plate. It will just taste worse after you've turned it into paste."

Izzie, it appears, has tried the old strategy of mushing up the more inedible looking parts of your food in an attempt to get out of actually having to eat them. Not that behaviour like that ever had any chance of getting past Joy.

Truly. I feel you, kid.

Ignoring her daughter's pouting, Joy turns back to me. "How do you feel about attending the reception with Dan, in my stead?" she asks.

I lower my spoon into my still half-full bowl of chicken broth and consider Joy, feeling decidedly as if I've missed something. That reception is a big deal, as mentioned, for a variety of reasons. I don't see why she'd suddenly want to get out of going.

Thus – "Why do you suddenly want to get out of going?"

Joy nods briskly. "Ah, see, it's like this. Gabriel from the office got hit by that stomach flu today at lunch. He was supposed to accompany Rogers to court tomorrow to argue the Everton case. You remember the Everton case, right? I told you about it. Anyway, for obvious reasons, we can't have Gabriel potentially vomiting all over the judges' table. So, Rogers asked me to come instead."

I do remember the Everton case. Joy's a humanitarian lawyer and this is one of the biggest cases they currently have at the fancy law office she works for. She's obviously brilliant, but due to being just thirty and having to juggle a family with her career, still pretty low in the office pecking order. For Rogers, one of the bigshot lawyers, to ask her to accompany him for such an important case is pretty great stuff.

"Congrats, Joy!" I exclaim, feeling genuinely pleased for her and more than a little bit proud.

She beams. "Yeah, it's pretty exciting. But it also means I'm going to spend the entire night working through a mountain of paperwork, trying to get up to date on everything. I mean, you know I would have loved to go to that reception, but this is just too big an opportunity to pass up."

Obviously.

"Is Dan alright with this?" I ask, already knowing the answer before I finished the question. Dan's the rare man who is never anything but proud and supportive of his wife's accomplishments.

Joy only waves my question aside. "Sure, sure. He understands. He would have gone on his own as well, but we figured it might be fun for you to accompany him."

"Are you certain? I could stay and look after the kids so you can work in peace," I offer, though admittedly a little reluctantly. I _would_ like to go.

Thankfully, Joy just laughs. "Nonsense. It's bedtime for this little miss soon anyway," she nods towards Izzie, who is staring at her mushed-up vegetables with rising resentment, apparently trying to make them disappear by sheer force of will, "and let's be honest, I can't even remember the last time Jake disturbed me when I had important work to do."

Hm… she does make a compelling case.

"And besides," Joy adds, with the expression of someone who knows that they're dealing a death blow, "one of us needs to go to see if the prince is as handsome in real life as his photos make him out to be. I mean, if I have to rely on Dan for a description of his looks, the only answer I am likely to get is that he's dark-haired!"

And we already knew that from the photos, of course.

Part of that reception being a big deal is because it's being thrown in honour of the Prince of Wales, who's apparently doing an internship of some sort with the UN.

"Alright. I will go," I concede, trying and probably failing to appear reluctant, even as Joy grins in triumph. "Don't get your hopes up though," I warn quickly. "I doubt I'm going to get close enough to him to give you a proper description. I mean, it's not like he's actually going to talk to someone as unimportant as me."

Joy considers me thoughtfully for a moment. "You're pretty," she points out. "He just might."

"Yeah, right," I scoff. Joy grins.

Before she can get any further on the matter though, I hurry to turn towards more practical problems. "I don't have anything to wear."

"Sure, you do. I bought a dress just for this reception. It should fit you reasonably well," she informs me, and really, why am I even surprised? Joy wouldn't be Joy if she didn't have this all planned out already.

Still, I look at her a little warily. She's a person of many talents, but fashion sense is not among them. "Fashion illiterate," Nan once called her, and she wasn't wrong. The heart of the matter though, is that Joy simply doesn't care. Even as a teenager, she could usually be found wearing jeans and some kind of shirt, often enough one that actually belonged to Jem. And even though she now possesses a collection of sharply tailored costumes and pantsuits for work – none of which she was allowed to choose herself – her off-duty clothing did not really evolve from those days. Much as I love Joy, I am not willing to wear a dress picked by her to a reception attended by an actual prince, even supposing I don't get closer to him than a hundred meters.

What she lacks in fashion sense, Joy makes up for in good humour though. Easily guessing at my concern, she merely gives me a reassuring pat on the cheek. "Don't worry. It's Di-approved."

Now this, indeed, changes things.

Di is the family's go-to person in all matters pertaining clothing. That's not to say Nan and I are such hopeless cases as Joy – Nan has a collection of patterned dresses that allows her to wear a different one each day of the month and still have some in reserve, while I definitely wouldn't spend quite so many evenings waitressing if I possessed the ability to walk past a cute top or a beguiling pair of shoes – but Di's the one who knows her Aquazurra from her Altuzarra and can definitely tell you when cerulean was last in season. Part of that, I'm sure, is her trying to compensate for the fact that she spends most of her days in a lab coat, but still – if Di approved the dress, there's little to worry about.

"That's what I thought," Joy nods upon seeing my expression change. "Wait here. I'll go and get it." She says and scrapes her chair back.

The moment Joy has exited the room, I quickly reach over the table and pull Izzie's plate over to me. Mushed-up vegetables are hardly my preferred choice of food, but I'm sure as hell not going to attend a reception on a stomach merely half-filled with chicken broth. I'm no novice. You need to have a _foundation_ if you want to make it to the end of the night.

"No telling your mum!" I warn Izzie as I make quick progress of the food on her plate. Izzie just beams at me toothily, obviously more than pleased with this development. Besides filling my stomach with something solid, I reckon taking the detested vegetables off her hands should be enough to put me into her good books again, after the earlier travesty of suggesting that we don't laugh at Brian's misfortune.

By the time Joy comes back, Izzie's plate is cleared and back in front of her, quite as if nothing had happened. Upon seeing both of us sitting there all innocently, Joy looks from me to her daughter, obviously immediately suspicious, then does a double take as she sees the empty plate. For a moment, I think she's going to say something but then she just shakes her head and lets it go. Excellent.

The dress she has carried in over her arm and now holds up for me to consider is quite simple in cut, but also a pure, snowy white. Just as well that I managed to get something into my stomach. I won't be able to even go _near_ food all night, for fear of staining all that whiteness.

"It's pretty," I confirm, reaching out a hand to take the dress from Joy. As I do so, I catch a glimpse of the discreet tag sewn in at the neckline and have to resist the sudden instinct to pull my hand back immediately. I'll have to ask Di to be sure, but I'd wager this dress cost more than my monthly rent – and then some.

"It was on sale," remarks Joy, having guessed at my thoughts as she so often does. "Now, how about you go and try it on and I clear the table?"

I nod my assent. Izzie, despite not having been excused, clearly recognises an opportunity when she sees one, for she is on her feet before I am and out of the door before I even had a chance to turn around.

"That girl…" sighs Joy, but we both know she doesn't mean it.

The simple cut makes the dress easy to pull on, so when Joy comes to join me in her bedroom some minutes later, I am already changed and subjecting myself to a critical inspection in the full-length mirror.

Joy and I are just about similar enough in body type that I can borrow her clothes, but we aren't _quite_ the same height. I'm not as tall as Di, and Joy is not as short as Nan, but I do have almost two inches on her. Consequently, her dresses and skirts always tend to end a smidge too soon on my thigh.

"It's pretty short, isn't it?" I ask, turning around and craning my neck so that I can see what the dress looks like from behind.

My sister, however, appears unmoved. "Looks fine to me. It was longer on me, but it's looser on you, so that balances it out. And besides, you're twenty-one. When, I ask you, can a woman wear slightly too short dresses, if not at twenty-one?"

The answer to that is 'never', I suppose.

And to be totally honest – I can't deny that my legs look pretty great.

"Did Di recommend any shoes for the dress?" I wonder, looking at Joy expectantly.

When she answers by handing me a pair of mid-heeled black court shoes that could only be describes as _sensible_ , I can't help laughing.

"Di did not recommend these!" I declare with confidence.

Joy blinks. "No, she didn't," she admits. "How did you know?"

Because Di wouldn't be caught dead wearing shoes like these.

"Just a hunch." I shrug. "What else do you have on offer?"

She opens a chest of drawers and seeing as her shoe cupboard is known to be as unexciting as her off-duty clothing – apart from mid-heeled black court shoes, it holds little variety save for two pairs of sneakers – I am surprised to see an absolutely delectable pair of purple high heels nestled in among all that drabness.

"Well, _hello_ ," I murmur, taking out the heels carefully. "Where did you get those?"

"These were the ones Di told me to wear with the dress," explains Joy. "But I can't see how anyone is supposed to walk in them."

"Silly Joy," I chide, running a reverent finger over the soft suede. "These shoes are not made for walking."

"Aren't _all_ shoes made for walking?" asks Joy, sounding genuinely confused. For someone so clever, Joy can be pretty slow on the uptake when it comes to such matters.

I sit down on the bed and cautiously strap the shoes to my feet. Once more, the name printed on the sole tells me that these easily cost another month's rent. "Not _these_ shoes," I explain to Joy, raising a shod foot for her appraisal. " _These_ shoes were made to be beautiful and make your legs look _that_ much longer than they are."

They also hurt like hell on my already much-abused feet. But beauty _is_ pain, I suppose.

Standing back up, I give myself another quick once-over in the mirror. Somehow, with the shoes thrown into the mix, the length of the dress looks just right.

"You look gorgeous," declares Joy.

I allow the compliment with a smile. "From the neck downwards at least," I concede. "The head still needs work."

Had I known in advance where this evening would take me, I would have taken more care to prepare my hair, but after a long day of classes, it is tussled and frizzy and thus, my options limited. Loose curls would have been great with the dress, but there's also no doubt that, given the circumstances, a classic bun is the more sensible option.

Joy's make-up collection is much less sizable than mine, but I've often enough prepared myself at her place for a night out to have stored the necessary essentials in her bathroom long ago. And besides, I can magic up a smokey eye out of basically anything by now. After all, I am the girl who, at age 14, was dedicated enough to substitute sharpie for eyeliner and, let's be honest – if worst came to worst, I'd _so_ still do that.

"It's always amazes me how you do that," Joy comments as she leans in the doorway and watches me apply eyeliner – proper one, this time.

"Natural talent," I answer without turning to look at her.

For where Joy's passion is food and Di's our fashion advisor, my forte is hair and make-up. I am not above throwing my hair into a ponytail on a hectic day, but I am also the only one in our family actually able to replicate those YouTube tutorials on the perfect fall make-up or the construction of a romantic loose braid (which is harder than it has any right to be, let me tell you).

Nan, on the other hand, is all about home decoration. She has enough throw pillows to rival her dress collection and Jem swears her scented candles were what gave him hay fever in the first place. She is also the only one among us who enjoys cleaning – she claims it _calms_ her – which is just as well considering the sizable assortment of various knickknacks dotted around her place.

"Must be. I certainly wasn't around when it was doled out," Joy agrees easily.

Well, no. Clearly not.

The front door closes quietly and moments later, I can hear footsteps coming closer that I recognise to be Dan's.

"Hello darling," Joy greets him brightly as he appears in the doorway next to her. "You're just in time. Doesn't Rilla look just gorgeous?"

"Very pretty," confirms Dan and I see him smiling at me in the mirror.

I know better than to believe Dan. He's been around pretty much since I can remember and has witnessed even the more unfortunate periods of my growing up without ever batting an eyelash. He called me pretty when I was a pudgy nine-year-old with an unfortunate liking for ruffles and hot pink and he called me pretty when I was a lanky girl of fifteen, clad in an indecently short corduroy skirt and a shirt with 'bitch' written in sparkles across the chest. Experience tells me not to trust Dan's assessment. Still, who doesn't like to hear they're pretty?

"Hello, Dan. And thanks." I quickly return the smile in the mirror before going back to trying to get my eyelashes to lie straight.

"Your colleagues will probably think you're cheating on me," Joy cheerfully informs her husband. "I might have to make a point of looking especially despondent when I run into Marcia at the kindergarten. I will probably sigh a lot and mention what a shame it is that you always have to work so long. It will be great fun!" The idea obviously delights her. Then, as an afterthought, "You don't mind, do you darling?"

Dan laughs softly. "No. Why would I?"

Joy nods. "Indeed. Why would you?"

Then she beams up at him and he bends down to give her a kiss and, watching them discreetly through the mirror, I reflect once more that if I manage to find myself a man who loves me half as much as Dan loves Joy, I reckon I should be alright.

* * *

 _The title of this story is taken from the song 'Simple Twist of Fate' (written by Bob Dylan, released him in 1975)._

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Killer Queen' (written by Freddie Mercury, released by Queen in 1974)._


	2. A glass of wine with you, sir

_New York City, USA  
_ _October 2010_

 **A glass of wine with you, sir**

As predicted, the party is positively teeming with people. It's only after a couple of minutes searching that Dan and I manage to find some colleagues of his, several of which I know from his last birthday party (Dan takes _great_ pains to explain my presence to them). It proves to be a fluid group, with people disappearing into the throng at intervals and others stopping as they walk by, being absorbed into the circle.

Dan knows better than to attempt to babysit me and an hour or two into the party, he has been carried off by two people from his office, the three of them deeply immersed in matters I've never particularly cared to understand. In the meantime, I have already fended off the attentions of a Dutchman named Pieter who was kind but proved bland after ten minutes of talk and glared away another guy whose name I never caught and whose sense of personal space I found to be lacking.

Currently, I am listening to a humorous tale as told by one Robert from Mombasa. (Or was it Kinshasa?) His work vaguely ties into what Dan does and he, too, was present at that birthday party last month. I remember thinking him a bit shy then, but a drink or two have obviously loosened his tongue a little, and he proves to be quite an amusing conversationalist while always maintaining a gentlemanly distance.

Idly wondering whether another drink might give him the courage to ask me out or whether I will be left to facilitate the next step myself, I crane my neck in search of a waiter and, more importantly, his delectably filled tray. Someone clearly figured that with royalty present, they had to bring their best in the booze department. It's much appreciated, too.

Instead of finding a tray of drinks, however, my eyes land on royalty instead.

The Prince of Wales held a short speech at the beginning of the night – of the well-studied kind that says little and offends no-one – and has been working the room ever since. Obviously primarily concerned with the more important people present, his handlers have carefully kept him away from us mere commoners, just as I predicted to Joy. Thus, I have so far only gotten a fleeting, far away glimpse at the prince, confirming little else but the fact that he is, in fact, dark-haired.

Now though, the VIP is standing a mere ten metres away, politely nodding along to whatever the middle-aged woman hanging from his elbow is telling him in rather a shrill voice. She's easily twice his age, but clearly _very_ determined not to let him get out of her sight. (What's betting she has a lovely daughter or niece she just _has_ to introduce him to? They're not calling him the most eligible bachelor in the world for nothing.) He looks amiable enough and yet there's _something_ I can't quite put my finger on –

"Looks like His Royal Highness is feeling unwell," remarks Robert quietly, obviously having followed my gaze. And yes, now that he mentions it, doesn't the prince look slightly peaky around the nose? A little _green_ , even?

Just now, he's gently trying to free himself out of the woman's grasp and takes a step backwards, obviously in an attempt to excuse himself. She, having only just gotten her claws into him, clearly won't hear of it though. Snatching his arm back, she continues talking loudly, her free hand gesturing in front of his face. And though his expression remains one of politeness, there's a creeping sense of panic in his eyes and in the way he presses his lips together.

 _Stomach flu_ , I realise.

And with sudden clarity, I know that in exactly eight seconds, he's liable to vomit all over the woman's orange velvet dress. (Seriously. Who in their right mind even wears orange velvet in this day and age?) I've seen that exact look far too often in the mirror during the last week not to recognise it.

Thus, when a waiter with a tray of drinks enters my field of vision, I react instinctively. Taking a calculated step sideward and swinging around in an exaggerated motion, I barrel straight into him. (In my defence, I always _did_ adhere to the Joy-and-Jem school of thought of 'act now, deal with the consequences later' – or never, I suppose. Whichever comes first.)

Almost as if in slow motion, I see the waiter stumble, causing his laden tray to become dislodged and sending the glasses flying. The contents spill onto my dress in what would be artful dribbles, if only there had been any kind of intention behind it. Seeing as there isn't, it's just a plain old mess.

It just _had_ to be red wine.

Thanks for nothing, universe.

Choice of drink notwithstanding, my little stunt does prove suitably dramatic, immediately ensuring that all eyes are concentrated on me. Robert, who had the presence of mind to grab my arm and prevent me from following the waiter down to the floor, just as quickly lets go of me again once I've re-gained my footing (no mean feat in these shoes) and instead procures a handkerchief as white as my dress used to be. The waiter quickly scrambles to his feet and though he nods at my apology, his glare belies any outward show of forgiveness.

As I futilely dab at my dress with Robert's handkerchief, I dare a discreet glance into the direction where the prince stood just moments ago. There's no trace of him anymore, just the woman in orange velvet standing in the same place, looking slightly bewildered and more than a little put out at having been deprived of her conquest.

Good. So at least I didn't ruin Joy's dress for nothing.

"That waiter really ought to have taken more care," states Robert, who's still hovering at my side, and I have to stop myself from scoffing. How anyone could feasibly claim that any of this was the unfortunate waiter's fault is beyond me.

Still, I hold my tongue and merely continue my futile dabbing for a moment or two longer. Then, giving it up as a bad job, I straighten. "Best that I go and get myself cleaned up. Mind if I borrow this?" I raise both the handkerchief and an eyebrow and Robert is quick to assure that he's perfectly fine with me borrowing the handkerchief. In fact, why won't I consider it a gift?

Murmuring a quick thanks, I then proceed to step around the five or so waiters currently employed with mopping up the mess I made and make my way across the room towards where I believe the restrooms to be. Finding the ladies' room to be positively brimming, I immediately leave it again, instead convincing a helpful man with an official looking name tag to show me the staff restrooms instead. He also provides me with a couple of damp towels, though quite how they are supposed to conquer red wine stains on white cloth remains his secret.

I did not exactly expect any of my ministrations to be any more successful, and they are not. Neither dry nor damp towels do any good in removing the stains. If anything, they just make it worse by rubbing the stains _into_ the cloth instead of out of it. Ten minutes in, I give up the dress as lost and throw towels and handkerchief alike in the bin with no little frustration. I reckon my best bet is to figure out a good excuse for ruining the dress and do it soon-ish.

Walking out of the restroom, I am still rubbing at a particularly large stain with my thumb and thus, manage to walk into another person for the second time this evening, just not intentionally this time. Thankfully, there are no more flying drinks involved, though I am once more steadied by a pair of hands closing around my upper arms.

"Steady there," says a voice somewhere above me. A voice with a _very_ posh English accent.

Raising my gaze to his, my slightly befuddled mind can think of nothing but to take note of the fact that while his hair is indeed dark, his eyes are a clear grey. He's also taller than he looks on TV. And his smile is rather nice, isn't it? (Should be enough of a detailed description to satisfy Joy, if nothing else.)

"You're my saviour," he realises, and his smile widens a notch. (It really is rather nice.)

Alright. Breathe, Rilla. And now, speak. Don't just stand there like an imbecile. _Talk_!

"I… I guess I am."

Good. Not very eloquent, but it's a start.

Thankfully, 'how to set speechless people at ease' is apparently part of Being Royal 101, for he just continues talking easily. "If you hadn't caused that ruckus, I'm sure I would have vomited all over that woman's dress about thirty seconds later."

Less, by my approximation.

Instead, I murmur, " _Orange velvet_ ," and shudder slightly.

He laughs. "It did look rather garish, didn't it?"

"Like a pumpkin," I agree. "Which is seasonal, but otherwise…" Lacking a proper word to end my sentence, I wave around an airy hand instead.

"Ill-advised," he finishes with a nod. Which is more diplomatic than anything I could have come up with.

"It would certainly have been less of a loss than your dress," he continues with a pointed glance at a wine stain on my shoulder. "Do you think it's salvageable?"

"Red wine," I say by way of explanation, and shrug.

His expression remains politely curious and I belatedly realise that not only has he likely never been faced with the trial of getting red wine stains out of clothing, he's probably never even done his own laundry in the first place.

"It's notoriously difficult to get rid of red wine stains," I elaborate for his benefit. "I've had some success with salt, and then there's vinegar for the more persistent stains, but looking at this mess… I'm not exactly very hopeful."

"Bugger," he responds with a sympathetic smile and I have to suppress one of my own. It's just such a delightfully English thing to say, isn't it?

"If it's any kind of consolation though, you really did save me," he adds. "It would have been all over the papers if you hadn't allowed me to make a quick exit just there. I can just about picture the headlines. _Prince of Vomit_. They would have had a field day."

He's shaking his head, but his lips are quirked up in a smile and this time, I allow myself to return it. " _His Royal Sickness_?" I suggest.

He laughs. "That's a good one."

Then, however, he leans forward slightly and considers me with interest. "You don't happen to be a journalist in disguise, do you?" His voice is light, but there's seriousness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

How awful must it be never to be able to trust anyone you meet?

"What would happen if I were?" I ask, raising a challenging eyebrow at him but barely able to fight off my smile. As intended, something in my stance is enough to convince him that I'm joking, and I can see his shoulders relax slightly.

"Oh well…" he shrugs. "Journalists disappear all the time, don't they?"

"I'd scream," I point out.

"You wouldn't even have time to scream," he explains amiably. "I don't much fancy company when turning my stomach inside out, but that doesn't mean my security detail isn't around here somewhere. They're trained in all kinds of vaguely Asian-sounding combat techniques."

"Impressive."

He nods. "It is. Want a show?"

"Not particularly," I decline, and he flashes me a grin.

"Before you entertain any ideas of disposing my body in some isolated forest," I continue, "I have to remind you that we are in the US, which isn't part of your daddy's collection of countries. There was this incident once, it involved tea in a harbour. Ring a bell?"

"Distantly," he concedes, trying and not quite succeeding in appearing solemn. "We British are notoriously touchy about our tea, you must know. We care about little else but dogs and horses, but we do care about tea. Dumping perfectly good tea into a harbour was never going to go down well with us."

I scoff. "Yeah. Obviously not."

He smiles, but otherwise keeps up an impression of concerned seriousness. "Impertinent Americans aside, however, I feel it is only fair to inform you that I do have diplomatic protection."

"And so does your security detail?"

"And so does my security detail."

"Well… bugger," I reply, doing my best impression of his posh English accent.

That seems to have given him an idea, because he eyes me with renewed interest. "Besides, I don't think you really are one of the impertinent tea-dumping Americans, are you? I haven't been here for long, but I think I can recognise an American accent when I hear one. Yours isn't that."

Busted.

"Canadian," I admit a little reluctantly. "I'm from Halifax originally."

He visibly brightens. "Oh. Well, that simplifies matters a lot. I _can_ have you thrown into The Tower after all."

"What a riveting prospect," I dead-pan.

"It is, really. The Tower is where we used to send the important prisoners. Some of them were even known to keep servants while there. Women of lesser means, we sent to The Clink or Newgate. Or Holloway, I suppose. That one's still in operation," he informs me helpfully.

"Oh, well. The Tower it is then," I reply with a shrug of my shoulders.

He considers me for a moment. "You seem curiously unmoved by such a fate," he points out.

It helps that it's a purely theoretical one, I guess.

"If I get sent to The Tower, I could seek out the ghost of Anne Boleyn. Do an interview, find out if she really slept with her brother. It could be my great breakthrough as a journalist," I explain, crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping that this particular accusation was a real one and not invented by the makers of _The Tudors_ for purposes of dramatization. I mean, I do think I remember it also featuring in that movie with Natalie Portman, but…

He nods, thus confirming that the makers of _The Tudors_ didn't get it entirely wrong. And they say watching TV isn't educational!

"My sister actually tried to find that out once," he states thoughtfully. "She had them bring her all the old court documents and whatever else survived of Anne Boleyn's papers."

"And what was her verdict?" I enquire, genuinely interest.

He frowns. "You know, now that you mention it, I'm fairly sure she got distracted halfway through and abandoned that particular quest." Which, from what I've read about her, sounds about right for the Princess Royal.

"All the better. So, I might yet get my exclusive with Anne Boleyn's ghost," I conclude blithely.

"Indeed, you might," he concedes with a soft laugh. His laugh, like his smile, is really very nice.

It doesn't last long though, for just moments later he grimaces slightly, his laugh turning into a quiet groan.

"Nausea acting up again?" I ask knowingly.

He nods, his expression pained. "I don't even know what's wrong with me. Normally, I'd chalk it up to being hungover, but…"

"It's too late in the day for a hangover to hit," I finish with a brisk nod.

"Well… yes," he admits, his face registering surprise for a moment.

Really. Where did he think I got my knowledge about the removal of wine stains in the first place?

"It's stomach flu. It's been making the rounds among us commoners for a couple of weeks now," I explain. "It's not actually dangerous but it is known for appearing out of nowhere and crippling anyone afflicted for several days."

He groans again, louder this time. "And I have at least another two hours of greeting people to suffer through before I can feasibly hightail it. Just bloody great!"

Come to think of it, won't those people already be wondering where he is? The only one liable to miss me is Dan (and maybe Robert from Mombasa – or was it Kinshasa?), but his absence is likely felt much more keenly.

Taking pity on him for the second time in less than an hour, I snap open the flap of my clutch bag – selected by Di to match the shoes – and reach inside to reveal two blisters of pills, without which I didn't quite dare to leave the house, lest my own stomach bug rears its head once more this evening.

"Lucky for you, I came equipped," I inform him, "these pink ones here should help with nausea and the blue ones will set your stomach at ease."

Gladly, almost eagerly, he stretches out a hand and allows me to pop a pill each into it. Watching him curiously as he swallows them quickly, I wonder, "Are you allowed to take pretty pink pills offered to you by a virtual stranger?"

His face freezes. It's a bit comical, to be honest.

"Those better not have been Mollies," he warns.

Mollies?

Oh.

Right.

"I'm not that kind of girl," I remark loftily.

He relaxes visibly.

" _However_ ," I add, and he tenses again, "I do wonder what you would have done if those had been Mollies? Thrown me in The Tower?"

For a second, he just stares at me. The he shakes his head, laughing quietly. "I would have found you a prison without famous ghosts haunting the premises."

"Pity," I declare with a smile. He returns it easily.

"If my sister finds out about the ruined dress, I might yet take you up on the offer though," I add thoughtfully. "I reckon a prison might just be enough to keep _her_ outside and _me_ safe."

"It's a loaned dress?" he asks quickly, now looking concerned.

I shrug. "Actually, it's a loaned _everything_. I'm pretending to be my sister tonight. She was busy with work, so I'm here together with her husband. This is the outfit she planned on wearing."

"And you sacrificed her dress to help me," he states slowly, "Risking her anger in the process."

"Er… something like that," I agree. I don't have the heart to tell him that Joy won't give a fig about the dress. It's _Di_ 's wrath I fear. But I suppose there's little use in needlessly complicating matters.

"You must let me replace the dress," he insists.

I raise a questioning eyebrow. "So, you're only going to replace it now you know it's not mine? I suppose that as a loyal subject, the sacrifice of a dress would have been an entirely acceptable price to pay for the honour of saving my future king?"

He looks so utterly startled for a moment that I have to suppress a smile. (I must admit that I'm quite proud of myself. Considering I barely got a word out when I first stumbled into him, I do think I've come quite far.)

"I was always going to replace it," he clarifies, lightly shaking his head at my words. "The matter merely became more urgent when, in addition to the loss of a dress, you stood to encounter your sister's anger as well." There's a smile tugging at his mouth, causing mine to finally break through as well.

"Fancy words," I acknowledge.

"I do aim to please," he shoots back.

Now I'm the one shaking my head and his smile widens to a grin.

"So, what brand is that dress? I mean, I don't think I can just walk into some store or another and tell them to sell me a white dress?" he queries.

"No, my sister might notice." Di that is, not Joy.

He nestles at his – envyingly well-cut – tuxedo jacket and procures a small metal case from the inside pocket. When he flips it open, it reveals a notepad and a nifty little pen.

"Now, the brand?" he asks.

"Oh." I wave a hand around. "It's by a totally important designer."

He blinks at me and I have to laugh. I didn't _really_ expect him to get that reference.

I also don't really expect him to know how to spell the name of that totally important designer, so I reach out and take both notepad and pen from him, scribbling down not only the designer's name but a few other points of information that might prove helpful to him in finding a replica of the dress I'm wearing.

When I hand back the notepad, he looks down at it for a moment before snapping the case shut and pocketing it again.

"And now," he continues, watching me with interest, "I only need to know into whose hands to send the new dress."

Ah.

"Couldn't you have your people find that out?" I ask back. "I mean, you surely have access to all kinds of secret channels and information not open to the rest of us mere mortals."

It's meant as a joke, but when he answers, he does so at least partly seriously. "I do, and I could. But I've been reliably informed that it's – and I quote – _creepy_. That's why long ago I settled for actually asking people for their number. It's less hassle, too."

I wonder if by 'people' he actually means to say 'women'?

"And besides," he continues, a glint of amusement in his eyes, "to find you, I'd need one of your shoes. And how would your sister like that?"

The reference is so unexpected that I give a surprised burst of laughter. He looks pleased.

"No way will I part from these shoes," I inform him. "They're the most uncomfortable shoes I've ever worn, but they're also _pretty_. I do intend to keep them, thank you very much."

He nods gravely. "Nothing else for you to do but to give me your number, then."

He does have a point, doesn't he?

When he pulls his phone from a different pocket and hands it to me, part of me is tempted to do a quick scroll through his contacts – just to see what kind of people a prince has on speed-dial – but I control myself.

Under his watchful gaze, I first type in my number. Instead of my name though, I enter _Cinderella_. (He was the one to bring up the fairy tales, wasn't he?) Then, on second thought, I delete the last part and replace it so that it now reads _Cinderilla_ , before pressing 'save'. Let him parse that one at his leisure.

I return the phone and he slips it into his pocket without another look.

"Very well, Your Royal Highness," I begin when he makes no move to speak. "I do believe you have guests to get back to and I shall see whether my brother-in-law is ready to go home."

He quirks up an eyebrow. "I didn't take you to be the kind that insists she must be home by midnight."

Oh, lovely. That was another fairy tale reference, wasn't it?

"Indeed, I am not," I confirm. "I am however getting slightly drunk from the smell my dress is emitting. Since I have a paper to write this weekend, I would prefer to get myself into something not reeking of alcohol. Otherwise, _I_ might yet experience the effects of an unintentional hangover tomorrow."

For a moment, he appears to want to ask something else, but then catches himself. "You're right. I really have to get back," he agrees and is that a tinge of regret in his voice?

He doesn't elaborate on it though, merely extending a hand for me to shake. When I do, his hand is warm and large and reassuring.

"I really must thank you," he adds, sounding serious all of a sudden.

"For rescuing you in there?" I ask with a smile.

He lets go of my hand again. "Yes. For that, and for making this evening more memorable than it otherwise would have been."

Then he gives me a slight nod before turning and striding away, back into the direction of the party. I remain standing there, looking after him and resisting the urge to pinch myself. Because wasn't that just the most surreal conversation?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Sailing to Philadelphia (written by Mark Knopfler, released by him in 2000)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Great to be hearing from you again! I very much hope you'll enjoy my latest offering - from what it sounds like, we're at least off to a promising start ;). I'm also very glad you like my Joy and her family, because those four are a lot of fun to write and will feature often during the course of the story. I've been wanting to write Joy into a story for ages now and I figured that modern medicine is on her side, so this was her best shot at staying alive.  
Oh, and if this chapter hasn't made it clear already: It's a very different Prince of Wales. In fact, it's an entirely different British Royal Family (diverging from the real one sometime in the late 19th century), so while some titles remain, the people behind them are very different indeed. So, never fear, I wasn't going to set up Rilla with Charles ;)._

 _To the anonymous Guest:  
Anne and Gilbert will feature in due time and both Walter and Shirley are very much alive in this universe as well. Rilla and Joy are nine years apart, so there's lots of space in-between them to fit in a couple of siblings. I just didn't mention them so far because I didn't want to do too much exposition right of the bat. But keep your eye open for more information on all family members in the next chapter :)._


	3. Don't say the morning's come so soon

_New York City, USA  
October 2010_

 **Don't say the morning's come so soon**

I am awoken by a soft touch to my cheek.

Groaning, I throw an arm over my face to stave off the disturbance. "It's too early for this. Let me sleep," I mumble, squeezing my eyes shut against the encroaching light of dawn.

The touch becomes a nudge against my shoulder.

Turning around with a huff, I pull up the covers over my head. "It's Sunday. Can't you let me sleep on _Sunday_ at least?" I ask, voice muffled by the blanket.

A second passes. Then I feel a tug at the blanket.

Alright, that's it! He's asking for it!

Throwing the blanket off and heaving myself into a sitting position, I glare at him.

"Seriously, George. It's Sunday. It's practically still night-time. Just because _you_ insist on being up at the crack of dawn doesn't mean _I_ have to be! So, what the hell do you want?" I hiss.

George doesn't answer.

"I asked you a _question_!" I snap.

For a moment, George considers me silently, head cocked slightly to the side.

Then – " _Meow_."

"Oh? _Meow_ , is it? Well, I'll give you _meow_!" I warn, raising a finger to emphasize my words.

Not that any of this concerns George. Obviously highly pleased at having achieved his goal of waking me up, he merely starts purring loudly and rubs his head against my elbow.

 _Cats_ , I'm telling you!

Muttering some not so very polite things, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking a sharp intake of breath when they hit the cold floor. "It's too early for this, George," I point out once more, feeling more than a little disgruntled.

George, however, pays me no heed. Jumping off the bed much more elegantly than I did, he prances ahead of me, over to the kitchenette tucked into a corner of my studio apartment. It's only when I don't follow quickly enough that he stops to gaze at me accusingly.

Padding over to the kitchenette, I open the fridge and peer inside it for an opened tin of cat food. Coming up successful, I empty its remaining contents into a bowl while a purring George winds figures of eight around my legs.

"If it's true that everyone is guilty of at least one of the seven deadly sins, yours is gluttony," I inform him as I put the bowl down. "Just so you know."

George doesn't appear overly interested in his own damnation though. Instead, he hastens over to where I set the bowl on the floor, devouring the food with the air of a famished cat that has gone hungry for at least two days (and not just since I came home which was… oh, four hours ago?).

"Greed, too," I add, looking down at George making short shrift of his food. "Pride as well, come to think of it." For was there ever a prouder creature than cat?

I don't get an answer. George is fully occupied emptying his bowl and does not appear to have any further mental capacities to spare listening to me. Just like a man, really.

Speaking of which – "By the way, I didn't see you when I came in last night," I tell him conversationally. "Off to romance that pretty tabby from down the road, were you? Shall we add lust to the list, what do you think?"

But the cat's head remains firmly hidden inside the bowl, his ears closed to anything I'm saying.

With a sigh, I give up. The digital numbers on my microwave inform me that it's just past seven in the morning, which surely is an ungodly hour to be up on a Sunday by anyone's standard. Still, thanks to the man in my life I _am_ up now, so I might as well try and spend the morning usefully.

Before I do anything at all though, I need a good strong coffee!

"Having had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with your claws, I reckon we could make a case to include wrath as well," I muse, as I reach for the coffee powder and measure a generous spoonful into a cup.

George, as expected, does not react.

Continuing to mull this train of thought over in my mind while I wait for the water to boil, I therefore add, "despair is a tricky one, except if we include the cat's despair at the human's general inability or unwillingness to conform to any and all of its wishes. Shall we include that one, George, what do you think?

No reply.

Turning, I find the bowl sitting lonely and clinically empty on the floor by my feet. A quick look around the room reveals that George, on the other hand, is back up on my bed, nose tucked beneath a paw, apparently fast asleep once more.

"And there's sloth," I grumble.

George merely flicks an irritated ear into my direction but otherwise gives no outward sign of having heard my complaints.

Pouring the now boiling water over the powder in my cup, I give it a quick stir. After waiting a second for the drink to mix, I take a large gulp, immediately feeling my face twist into an involuntary grimace. Instant coffee might do the trick of waking you up, but there's no getting around that fact that it tastes revolting.

Emptying my cup of coffee as quickly as George cleared his bowl, I put both into the sink and walk back over to the bed. George takes this as his cue and uncurls himself, luxuriously stretching out over the length of it. His eyes are firmly closed still, but I know he's perfectly aware of me standing next to the bed.

"Come on, make some space for me," I ask him.

Is it me or is George squeezing his eyes shut a little tighter?

"I know you're not asleep," I inform him. "Now, move over. You're a cat. You don't need a whole bed to yourself."

However, he does apparently very much need a bed for himself after all. For when I nudge him to the side a little, I just about manage to dodge the sudden swipe he directs at my hand a split of a second later.

"We already had wrath," I remind him as I sit down on the bed and slide my legs under the covers, all under his decidedly disdainful gaze.

George does not deign this with an answer, instead continuing to glare at me in the way only cats can.

"Now, what's left?" I ask him pensively. "Envy, isn't it? Any idea as to how we can include envy in there?"

If he has one, he does not share it. He merely gets up, turns his back to me and starts kneading the blanket with fervour. And watching him thusly, this utterly spoiled cat that, as I have long since realised, does not accept any cats beside him, I come to the conclusion that no, there's no way to include envy. For a cat to feel envy, it would have to accept that there's another being on earth that is somehow superior to cats and clearly, that won't do.

"Looks like you aren't guilty of _all_ the deadly sins after all," I cheerfully point out to George. He, now purring again, swirls himself into a cat-shaped donut at the bottom end of the bed and blinks at me with something akin to affection. (Rarely have I met a being more prone to mood swings than that cat. Or any cat, really.)

Suppressing a yawn, I reach over to my bedside table and get a hold of my textbook on macroeconomics. It disgustingly early to bother my already (still?) slightly befuddled brain with 'the study of aggregate economic analysis' but needs must and it wouldn't be wise to let this quiet Sunday morning go to waste.

So, I cuddle back under my blanket, flip open the book at the current chapter, try to focus on the words all lined up on the page and –

And give a sudden start when the alarm clock next to me starts beeping.

Feeling disoriented, I first stare at the textbook lying next to me, a distinct fold now running down the middle of one page, then down at George who is currently lying on his back, paws in the air, trying his utmost to ignore the still beeping alarm. Blindly hitting the top of the clock, I manage to get it to quieten down. Only then do I peer over at it, attempting to discern the time.

10 o'clock sharp.

So much for making good use of a quiet Sunday morning.

Groaning, I shut the textbook and get up from the bed. George, suddenly alert, quickly jumps down to the floor as well and starts rubbing his head against my shins in a not very subtle attempt to get me to prepare him a second breakfast. (Or would that be third breakfast? Does the food I gave him at three in the morning qualify as breakfast or would it still be considered a midnight snack? Existential questions, these.)

After having laid another edible offering at the altar of cat (in my defence, he's prone to feet-biting if not fed according to his personal inner schedule), I quickly pull a brush through my hair and throw on a random cardigan.

At five past ten, I'm sitting back on my bed, laptop in front of me, chocolate bar in hand and another cup of instant coffee by my side. I'm all ready for our weekly chat – or as ready as can be, I suppose. For me to miss it, something much more drastic would need to happen. Joy and I see each other often, but with Di away in Winnipeg and Nan in Toronto, it's a rare moment when we're all physically together in the same place. Hence the weekly calls on Sunday morning. (We used to do them by phone, but when Di suggested video conference calls recently, it proved a much-appreciated upgrade.)

As usual, it takes a second or two for Skype to open, but when the screen springs to live, I am greeted by the three smiling faces of my sisters.

"Now, would you look at what the cat dragged in!" Nan greets me cheerfully.

"I'll have you know that George would never drag in anything of my size," I shoot back. "It's much too much effort. He has people for that."

"Meaning you," remarks Di.

"Meaning me," I confirm with a wry smile.

Sometimes I wonder whether, if I had known a year ago that the tiny, shivering, bedraggled-looking orange kitten sitting on my window sill would turn out to be such a despot, I still would have taken him in.

(The answer is that yes, I totally would have. Go figure.)

"You do look quite like something dragged you in though," states Joy, sounding mildly interested and peering at me (alright, at her screen) over a Mulan cup. Does Izzie know about this, I wonder?

"Or some _one_ ," persists Di and wiggles her eyebrows.

"Oh, har har." I roll my eyes at them. "If you _must_ know, I spent most of the evening waitressing and afterwards met Chelsea and Megan in that new club on Gansevoort Street. I got home late, but I got home _alone_."

"Huh?" Di blinks. "Where's Gansevoort Street? Aren't all streets in New York merely numbered?"

Feeling rebellious, I tilt forward my chin a little. "Gansevoort Street is right to the north of Horatio Street."

"Oooh, you mean Horatio as in Hamlet?" pipes up Nan, visibly brightening.

Joy immediately whips out her phone and starts typing. "Wait a moment…" she asks, frowning at the screen. Then, "Sadly, no. It's Horatio as in Horatio Gates. He was an officer in the Revolutionary War. And, let me see… yes, so was Gansevoort."

"Oh." Nan pulls a face.

But Joy isn't done yet. "Wait, there's more. Apparently, said Gansevoort was the grandfather of Herman Melville," she adds, lowering her phone.

"I _do_ like Moby Dick," Nan concedes thoughtfully.

"Yeah, like we didn't already know that," mutters Di and Nan sticks out her tongue at the screen. Di merely gives her a cheery wave in return.

"And having established that, can we now return to the more pressing matter at hand?" asks Joy with all the authority of the eldest sister and I swear, all three of us sit up a little straighter purely by instinct.

A second passes in silence.

"What _is_ the more pressing matter at hand?" Nan finally asks cautiously.

"As I told you, Rilla accompanied Dan to that UN party on Thursday. I've been waiting for an account for two days now, but so far, she's proved as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel," remarks Joy meaningfully.

Di perks up in interest. "Could it be said that she has been avoiding you?" she inquires.

"It could, indeed," confirms Joy, toasting me slightly with her Mulan cup.

They're all three of them looking at their screens now in a way that leaves little doubt that they're looking at _me_ specifically.

For the second time in about as many minutes, I roll my eyes, eliciting a smile from Nan and causing Di to mimic me rather dramatically.

Truth is, I totally have been avoiding Joy, mostly because I've yet to come up with a good excuse for the stained dress. Now, I'm not too worried about Joy being concerned about the loss of the dress itself, but she'd want to know how it _happened_ (she's curious that way) and can't very well tell her that I sacrificed her dress to save the future king from vomiting all over a woman dressed as a pumpkin, after which he threatened me with both kidnapping and imprisonment and I almost offered him drugs. _Can_ I?

"I've been busy," I declare haughtily, though not without stealing a slightly guilty look at the dress hanging from the back of my front door – out of sight of my laptop's camera, naturally.

" _Of course_ you've been busy," replies Joy with such an exaggerated wink that I can't help laughing.

Di flaps her hands energetically in an attempt to get us to quieten down. "Would that UN party be the one where a certain prince was present?" she asks.

In her part of the screen, Nan sits up a little straighter.

"The very same," confirms Joy with a firm nod.

"Did you get to meet him?" Nan wants to know, eyes bright with interest.

Now, what to say to that?

"He mostly kept to the more important people present," I answer carefully. I mean… that isn't _wrong_ , is it? He _did_ mostly keep to the more important people present. Incidents involving spilled wine notwithstanding, I would never have gotten to talk to him.

"But you saw him, didn't you?" persists Nan.

I suppose there's no danger in admitting that.

"I did. He was making the rounds most of the evening and once came quite close to where I was standing." There. That's no lie either. I'm getting rather good at this.

"Does that mean I do get my report on his looks after all?" enquires Joy

"We-ell," I answer slowly, "I can confirm that he is, in fact, dark-haired."

In return, she gives me such a dirty look that Nan jumps a little in surprise. Di raises an eyebrow. "There's a story there," she recognises.

But Joy just waves her off. "Later." Which is just as likely to mean never, to be honest.

Taking pity on her anyway, I elaborate slightly on my report. "He's taller than he looks like in pictures. Quite as handsome though. And he has rather a nice smile."

"Hm… Methinks you must have gotten quite a bit closer to him if you can judge the niceness of his smile," remarks Di slyly.

Drat.

Quick. I need an explanation.

"He… he made a speech," I point out hurriedly. "He was up for all to see. I had a pretty clear view from where I was standing."

Not a perfect explanation, but it'll do. At least all three of my sisters are nodding and none of them seem to have anything immediate to say to tease me with, which happens seldom enough.

"I was quite sure he'd take some note of you," Joy remarks, sounding slightly wistful. "It would have been fun. You could have introduced us to the Queen."

I'm sorry, but… _What_?

"Oh, yes," agrees Nan happily, even while I'm still trying to collect my bearings. "She's _so_ beautiful." Nan, like Walter, values beauty highly.

Thankfully though, I can rely on Di at least. "You two will tell us when you're back from whatever fantasy world you've temporarily defected to?" she asks drily.

Nan rather looks like as if the only reason she's not sticking out her tongue again is that she doesn't want to pull the same move twice in such a short time. Joy moves her hand in a way that suggests flicking Di off but stops short of the actual gesture. Di just grins.

"No meeting the Queen, I'm afraid. Nor the King, come to think of it," I shrug, and for the first time in a while, I am at least entirely sure of the truth of what I'm saying.

"Not that that was ever an option in the first place," adds Di. "I mean, surely the prince is already dating some impossibly posh girl who has both the legs and the pedigree of a race horse, isn't he?"

"Actually, no, he isn't," corrects Nan. "He broke up with the last one – Lady something or another – before coming to the US. Apparently, she felt that after sticking with him through years of military service, she was due some more commitment. So, faced with him moving to New York for a year, she set him an ultimatum – which, obviously, backfired on her."

For a second or two, no-one answers.

"Well. _Someone_ did their homework," Di finally states, looking incredulous.

Nan colours prettily (Nan does everything prettily). "It was in _Hello_ ," she mumbles. "And they'd never be wrong about something as important as this."

"As important as who's currently keeping the royal bed warm, you mean," Di amends and Nan laughs lightly.

"I doubt he's short of offers," I remark with a shrug.

Joy cocks her head to the side. "What makes you say that?"

Because he's _good_ , isn't he? That act of making the other person feel as if they're telling you exactly what you've always wanted to hear? He has it down pat.

"Oh, nothing specific," I deflect instead. "It's just that there's probably a sizable number of women out there who'd do just about anything to bag themselves a prince."

"Probably", agrees Joy. Di pulls a face that makes her look as if she's in dire need of root canal.

We've all of us been raised in the firm belief that no woman needs a man to accomplish whatever she wants in life (though short of conquering, say, Luxembourg, I don't see how becoming Queen is possible these days if not by birth or marriage). Di just has the added advantage of not needing a man for anything else either.

" _Anyway_ ," I say quickly before anyone else can come up with further questions on a princely encounter I don't want to talk about. "Has anyone talked to Mum or Dad recently?"

If any of them is surprised at my not very elegant change of subject, they don't show it. Instead, Di shrugs slightly and offers, "Mum called yesterday."

"And I talked to her on Thursday, so you win," adds Nan.

"Any news?" queries Joy. Like me, she certainly got a call from Mum within the last couple of days as well, but if Di talked to her yesterday, she's bound to be the one most up to date.

Di looks thoughtful for a moment. "Dad has a complicated surgery on a two-year-old girl coming up next week, which he's a bit wary of, according to Mum," she supplies.

Dad is one of the premier neurosurgeons in Canada, so it makes perfect sense for him to be called upon to conduct a complicated operation, but I can see why operating on the brain of such a young child would cause even the most experienced surgeon to feel a bit wary. It's an awful lot of responsibility.

"And Mum herself slightly despairs over some of the essays her students handed in on Friday," Di adds. "But in happier news, the latest book is coming along nicely."

"Oh, yes," agrees Joy. "She sent Jake the first four chapters of her draft a while back and he was quite taken with them."

During day-time, Mum is a professor at Dalhousie University, teaching English to college students of varying enthusiasm. In the evenings, she writes widely praised and widely sold children's books. At ten, Jake is slowly starting to outgrow her main demographic, but he's been her premier critic ever since he was old enough to understand what she was reading to him, so expect both of them to hold on to that a while longer. Especially seeing as it's difficult to get Izzie to sit still long enough to read more than a page to her and as further grandchildren don't look to be forthcoming for the time being.

"Now, let me think…" Di continues slowly. "Was there anything else?"

"Anything on the boys?" asks Joy, meaning our brothers.

"Not much, when I talked to her" replies Nan in Di's stead. "No-one is seeing much of Jem these days, from what she said. She also hadn't heard from Walter in a couple of days."

Jem stayed in Halifax to study, so is theoretically close to home, but as he's also halfway into a five-year General Surgery residency program, he's more than a little busy.

"Walter's good. I called to check in on him Friday night," provides Di.

Walter lives in Ottawa, doing some government job that sounds, frankly, quite boring. I've never particularly cared to find out what, exactly, it is what he does there, nor how a degree in Russian Literature (born out of an early fascination with the Pushkins and Tolstoys of this world) qualifies anyone to work for the Canadian government. I reckon he's mostly translating stuff for them – he's fluent in Russian after spending his gap year there and did some years of freelance translation work before landing his government job. And it _is_ a nice and safe job to have at twenty-six, so I suppose that's one advantage, even if it's all very boring.

"And how's Shirley?" I enquire after our youngest brother. "Is he any closer to figuring out what he'd like to do with his life?" (Not that _I_ have it figured out yet, but that's neither here nor there.)

At eighteen, Shirley is the family baby. There were some complications after his birth – a time which I remember not at all and the twins only with very little clarity, but which the elder three steadfastly refuse to talk about – ensuring that he would always remain the youngest.

I mean, not that seven children aren't a lot by anyone's standard. You do sometimes wonder what our parents were _thinking_.

"Not from what anyone knows," answers Di. "Mum says he seems content to spend the entire day shut off in his room, doing something or another with his computer. It does worry her a little, I think. At least he used to have to come out for school, but since graduating in summer, she says they're lucky if they see him twice a day when he's foraging for food."

"Apparently, last week he meandered out of his room, randomly informed Dad that the Peruvian Ministry of Health _really_ needs better cyber security, and went back inside," adds Nan, frowning slightly.

Several seconds pass in silence as we all try to process that information.

"Well… at least we have two lawyers in the family?" I offer weakly.

Nan nods. "Yeah. At least we've got that." But she doesn't sound convinced.

"You can't deny that puberty hit strangely with that one," Joy remarks to no-one in particular and I just _know_ she's crossing her fingers that puberty won't hit nearly as strangely with Jake.

"Why's that anyway, what do we think? Nan?" Di raises an eyebrow in question, her eyes fixed on a spot slightly to the right where her twins obviously occupies her screen.

"Why me?" protests Nan immediately.

Joy shrugs. "Di's right. You _are_ the child psychologist," she points out.

"In training!" Nan immediately corrects. "You all know I still have almost my entire Masters course to go through, which takes no less than two years, and _then_ there's the PhD, which should take another five."

She and Di have just turned 24. Add seven years and she'll be in her thirties when she's finished.

Madness.

"Uh-huh," makes Di, her expression leaving little doubt that she agrees with me. "I still don't understand why there's any job at all that requires _eleven years of training_!"

"Jem needs a year longer to become a surgeon," Nan points out quickly. "He expects to be done – when? Summer 2013? He'll turn thirty-one then!"

"Some professions just carry a high amount of responsibility. Child therapist and surgeon are clearly among them," Joy tries to mediate. The tone in her voice reminds me of the one she adopts whenever Izzie has scribbled all over Jake's latest book again.

"Well, call me crazy," I speak up anyway, "but I'd prefer it if Di didn't get her viruses all mixed up either. And they're already letting her work part-time in that lab even though she's only just started with her Masters course."

Di's studying to be a microbiologist. She's doing a lot of things that go completely above my head, but she once explained it to me as "inventing vaccines" and I think I can understand that.

" _Thank_ you!" she now exclaims, throwing her hands up dramatically. "You can have a responsible job without doing that many years of studying."

I don't quite have the heart to point out to her that six years of university are plenty in most people's book. (And to think she and Nan both effectively delayed university graduation by a year when they went travelling through South East Asia and Australia after school!) Sometimes I think that, with Walter the only one so far to have left college with 'just' a bachelor's degree, my family's standards are pretty skewed.

Nan says something in reply to Di, but I don't quite catch it as George takes that moment to tap over to me and butt my hand with his head, demanding to have his ears scratched. "Hello, you," I greet him quietly and he purrs in appreciation.

When I turn back to the screen, I just catch the rest of Nan's sentence, "…and putting that subject to rest – does anyone want to have a guess at who has just asked me to move in with him?" She's trying to keep her face composed, but there's a smile threatening to break out any second.

Di scoffs good-naturedly. "Like there are so very many options."

"Diana!" scolds Joy mildly.

But they're both laughing, and Nan is positively beaming with happiness. (How she managed to hold that news back this long is quite beyond me). And I have to say that my parents might have been quite mad to have seven children, but on balance, I wouldn't want to miss any of my siblings for all the world.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The One that You Love' (written by_ _Graham Russel_ _, released by Air Supply in 1981)._

* * *

 _A/N: I know Shirley is older than Rilla in the books. But be honest - it works out so much neater this way 'round, doesn't it?_

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
You know, Rilla would probably have preferred the romantic fairy tale beginning, but I think it's boring and I'm the one calling the shots - hence, nausea and red wine it is! And I'm having lots of fun with this story, so it's great to hear that it translated well onto page.  
Joy is indeed a lot like Anne (minus the overactive imagination, I'd say). Actually, so is Grandma Bertha (which we will learn about more in two chapters time) and so is Izzie, so I thinks that's something to be passed from mother to oldest daughter. And yes, Joy won't forget the ruined kangaroo suit in a hurry!  
There's a little bit on Walter and everyone else in this chapter already, but there's certainly more to come as the story progresses (and never fear, Walter's life isn't as boring as Rilla thinks it is!) And there'll also be a family reunion soon-ish, so I hope all your demands will be met in due time ;)._

 _To Teresa:  
Hello and thanks for reviewing! I always love to hear readers' thoughts. And your review made me laugh especially, because I'm entirely with you on modern AU stories. I'll go out on a limb and say that I never read a modern AU myself and yet I am here, writing one. Strange how the world works, isn't it? Either way, I'm really happy to hear that you're enjoying the story so far and hope you will do so in the future as well!_


	4. Ghosts of my history

_New York City, USA  
October 2010_

 **Ghosts of my history**

The message reaches me just as I walk up the steps from the Subway.

 _I've got the dress._

Nothing else. No name given and an unfamiliar number. And yet, I know immediately who it's from. _Of course_ , I do.

I must say, I didn't really expect him to get in touch. I mean, surely royal princes are much too busy to care about the ruined dresses of lowly little commoners such as me, right? At the most, I thought he'd delegate the task to one of his cronies. That he took the trouble to message me himself does, therefore, impress me a little. It probably shouldn't, because what trouble is a simple message anyway? And yet, somehow, it still does.

Before I get a chance to answer, another message pops in.

 _I could have it with you tonight. Are you in?_

Huh? Almost two weeks without a word and suddenly, he's in a rush?

Stopping at the top of the stairs and taking a step to the side so as not to obstruct busy New Yorkers hurrying home, I type my reply.

 _Yes, I'll be home in a couple of minutes. But there's really no need to send a courier. You can simply mail it._

For a split second, I hesitate before typing in my address, but then add it anyway. I suppose stranger danger doesn't really apply when the stranger in question is one of the most famous people on earth. And besides, we already established that he has ways to find me, should he feel so inclined, didn't we?

The moment I press _send_ , my phone vibrates to indicate an incoming call. And for a split second I think – but no, it's just Joy.

"Hey," I greet her after taking the call. With my free hand, I push my handbag further up on my shoulder and then start walking again.

"Hello sister-darling," Joy answers cheerfully. "I take it Dan already relieved you. Did Izzie behave herself?"

"She was exactly as well-behaved as you'd expect her to be," I reply with a fond little smile as I remember Izzie's latest antics. I looked after her this afternoon while her parents were working, and while she's a force of nature, she also never fails to amuse me.

Joy laughs. "So, not very," she concludes (correctly, at that).

"Just Izzie being Izzie," I agree, putting the shrug she can't see into my voice.

"So long as she didn't burn the place down," states Joy breezily. "But that wasn't why I called anyway."

"What is it, then?" I ask.

On the other end of the line, I can hear Joy's muffled voice as she speaks to someone else, hand over the receiver, but she's back after a couple of seconds. "Sorry. Just had to sort that out," she apologises. "Right. Where were we?"

"You were just about to inform me why you called in the first place," I deadpan.

"Yes, of course," exclaims Joy cheerfully, not rising to the bait. "Actually, I'm calling on behalf of Dan."

"I just saw Dan when I handed over Izzie to him," I point out. "If he wanted to tell me something, wouldn't he have done so himself?"

"He thought it better if I did," replies Joy.

Alright. Now I'm curious.

"Why's that?"

"Do you remember Robert? His colleague?" asks Joy.

I nod, though of course she can't see that. "I do. Robert from…"

Mombasa? Kinshasa?

"From Awasa, yes," supplies Joy.

Awa-what?

But Joy is still talking. "I think you met him at Dan's birthday party, didn't you? And you also got talking at that UN reception?"

"We did," I confirm distractedly, my mind still trying to puzzle out the mystery of _Awasa_.

"Robert said he didn't get a chance to ask for your number, so he wondered if Dan might give it to him instead," Joy finishes her query.

"That reception was almost two weeks ago," I remark as I swerve to avoid three kids running past me at full speed, oversized backpacks bouncing along on their backs.

"I suppose it was," concedes Joy, though clearly a little reluctantly. "I think he's just the shy type."

I purse my lips. "There's being shy and there's missing your opportunity."

Joy clucks her tongue. "I don't know about that. There _are_ some advantages to a man who knows when to take things slow…" she replies meaningfully.

I stop.

Did she just –?

She _so_ did.

I groan audibly. On the other end of the line, I can hear Joy cackling.

"Yes. Thank you. Like I needed that mental image," I grumble, which only serves to heighten her amusement.

"So _prudish_!" she declares.

Which… I'm not, I don't think. I simply don't relish _that_ particular mental image, thank you very much!

Rounding around the last street corner, I head for my apartment building. I live in what many people consider to be the _wrong_ part of Brooklyn. It's one of the neighbourhoods not yet gentrified by hip young people priced out of Manhattan, instead maintaining an ethically and religiously fairly diverse population, with the average income on the lower medium end (for New York, that is). The criminal rate is a little higher than Dad is comfortable with, but it's not a hotbed of crime either. It's a perfectly adequate place to live, really, and seeing as even here, my tiny studio apartment with its dodgy heating and low water pressure already costs an arm and a leg, it's not like I have much options anyway.

"Whatever you say," I reply to Joy, while walking up the steps to the front door, making sure to make it sound as passive-aggressive as possible. She just laughs.

"Have Dan give Robert my number, for all I care," I add as I fumble for my keys. "If he's as shy as I think he is, he's unlikely to make any use of it anyway."

"Maybe the prospect of a date with you is just enough to entice him to overcome his shyness," suggests Joy.

"Maybe…" I answer, drawing out the word to indicate my doubt. "We'll see either way. And I've just arrived home, so I'm going to cut you off now."

"You wound me!" declares Joy dramatically, laughter evident in her voice.

"You'll get over it," I reply drily.

"Probably," she agrees. "Love you anyway."

"Yeah. You, too. I _think_."

I cut off the call to her laughter and drop the phone on my bag without another look, moving to open the door instead. It's a stubborn thing, only to be opened using both hands and, more often than not, a well-measured amount of brute force. The landlord has been promising to do something about it for ages now, but I'm not holding my breath.

Before I tackle the stairs to my top-floor apartment, I make a detour to knock on the door of Mrs Weisz.

Mrs Weisz lives in the ground-floor flat overlooking the street. Her bad legs rarely allow her to go out anymore, but she still knows all the going-ons inside the house. I hadn't been living here for a week before she adopted me as her special charge. More than a year later, she shows no signs of lessening her care.

It takes a moment for her to answer my knock, but when she does, her face shows no surprise at seeing me. She clearly sat by the window when I entered the house and knew I would come see her.

"My dear Marilla," she greets me, and I try not to wince at the name. It's not that I _mind_ being named for my grandmothers, especially as they're both quite remarkable women (I have a feeling Mrs Weisz would get along very well with both of them), but that doesn't change the fact that I don't _feel_ like a Marilla. Marilla is my grandmother (or, step-grandmother if we're being technical). It's certainly not me.

"Hello Mrs Weisz," I return the greeting anyway and smile. I've already tried too often to get her to just call me Rilla to take it up again now. I suppose it should count as a success that I got her to stop calling me Bertha at least. Marilla might feel weird, but _Bertha_ feels like an entirely different person.

"Do come in," invites Mrs Weisz and ushers me inside the flat with a wave of her hand.

I've been here more often than I can count, yet I am still struck every time by the sheer number of photos occupying every available surface. They hang on walls and stand on tables, so many of them that one hardly knows which one to look at first.

Many of the photos are black and white, with a lot of others having the sepia-tinge of the 60s and 70s. Among the few proper colour photographs is one of Mrs Weisz and me, which occupies a fairly prominent space next to the TV. Looking at it never fails to make me feel oddly touched.

One of our favourite shared past-times is me picking out one of the photos at random and her telling me about the people pictured in it. Almost all of them are long dead.

"Have you brought me anything?" asks Mrs Weisz as she motions for me to sit on one of the kitchen chairs and starts clanking around with the coffee pot. Compared to the instant coffee I have upstairs, hers tastes like heaven.

I know better than to offer to help her, even if I very much want to, so I bend down to retrieve my handbag from where it stands next to my feet.

When Mrs Weisz sees it, she clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "You will ruin your back, carrying this," she chides.

I don't have the heart to tell her that this isn't even the largest handbag I own. And if the alternative is going to classes with one of those ugly backpacks, well… I suppose ruining my back is a risk I have to take.

"In my day, young women didn't carry around everything they owned in their handbags," adds Mrs Weisz, the familiar air of wistfulness around her that always rises up whenever she talks of the past.

"In your day, very many young women didn't attend college either, Mrs Weisz" I remind her.

She sighs. "And what a shame it was. So much wasted potential!" There's a flash in her eyes that proves, once more, that age might have made her body frail, but her mind is as active as it's always been.

Mrs Weisz, of course, used to be an engineer, one of very few women in the field during her youth. Education for girls is a topic she remains very passionate about. Actually, she remains very passionate about a lot of topics.

Pulling two library books from my apparently overly large handbag, I set them down on the kitchen table. Mrs Weisz wipes her hands on the front of her skirt and picks one up to peer at its back cover.

Romance novels are her admitted guilty pleasure. I keep her in a steady supply of them from the library and in return, she keeps me informed about whatever is happening in them. I am therefore intimately familiar with the plot of many a romance novel I never read myself. So much so that I once caught myself halfway into an in-depth discussion about one of them with a girl at university before I realised that everything I knew about the book in question came from Mrs Weisz.

"Yes, yes. Good, good," decides Mrs Weisz after having looked at the second book as well. When it comes to romance novels, she isn't hard to please, but by now, I also have a pretty good idea of what kind of book might meet her especial approval.

Putting the books away to one side, Mrs Weisz surveys me critically. "Have you eaten? You're looking particularly slender today."

"I had lunch at the dining hall," I answer. There's no use resisting Mrs Weisz if she wants you to give her particular information. The path of least resistance is just to be well-behaved and answer.

"What about supper?" she further enquires.

"I ate some together with my niece." Best not say that it consisted of fish fingers with mac and cheese on the side. (Best not to say that to Joy either, come to think of it.)

Mrs Weisz purses her lips, but nods anyway. Fattening me up is one of her favourite past-times – while I try my utmost to maintain a proper balance of both keeping her happy and not bursting out of my clothes at the same time. (Just imagine all the waitressing I'd have to do to pay for an entire new wardrobe!)

My resistance isn't made easier by the fact that the various dishes she cooks up are both very tasty and what you'd politely call 'rich'. Many of the recipes come from her native Hungary – which is otherwise only evident in the very slight trace of an accent that even decades of living in the States weren't able to eradicate – and while I can never remember their names, I can definitely attest to their deliciousness.

Equally delicious is the steaming coffee Mrs Weisz places in front of me before she takes a seat as well.

"Have you called your mother recently?" she enquires. With her own children and grandchildren living far away (and probably not calling as often as she'd like them to), Mrs Weisz always makes sure I never go too long without speaking to Mum.

"I did, actually," I hurry to assure. "We talked the day before yesterday."

"Very well," concedes Mrs Weisz and takes a sip of her coffee. I follow suit, savouring the rich taste of it.

Mrs Weisz's place is basically the only one where I can get proper coffee in this city. What they sell you as coffee in the university dining hall is glorified dishwater and the less said about that instant coffee I have upstairs, the better. Seeing as my budget doesn't allow regular trips to Starbucks, I definitely know to appreciate Mrs Weisz's offering.

"Your family is well?" she now asks. With the exception of Joy and her children, Mrs Weisz has never met any member of my family, but she still makes it her business to know all about their well-being as well as everything that's going on in their lives.

Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, I nod confirmation. "Yes, reasonably so. They're all pretty busy, but busy of the good kind, so no obvious complaints. Or at least none that have been brought to my attention," I tell her.

Mrs Weisz makes a thoughtful sound. "Has your sister moved in with her boyfriend yet?"

See what I mean about her keeping well-informed?

"I think she means to do it sometime this month," I explain. "She's quite over the moon at him finally having asked."

"Yes, yes. They have been dating for a while, haven't they?" asks Mrs Weisz. She does, after all, love a good love story.

"Hmh. Four or five years now, I think," I confirm. "They've known each other forever, of course, but only got together after they both started studying at McGill."

Unlike Jem and Faith, who only ever had eyes for one another, Jerry and Nan didn't take a particular interest in each other until adulthood. I suppose him being a good four and a half years older (compared to an age gap of less than two years between Jem and Faith) might have played a role in that. Nan was still in middle school when Jerry left to study accounting in England. (I should probably remember the name of the place but can't seem to. Something with W, maybe? Or C? Or _both_?) It was only when, after having graduated and worked in London for a couple of years, he returned to Canada for his MBA that they met again and fell in love while both in Montreal.

After navigating a long-distance relationship for two years following his move to Toronto for work (he has some kind of financial job that I suppose I ought to understand better than I do), Nan followed him there once she had gotten her bachelor's degree. She _says_ it's because Toronto has a very good programme for Child Psychology, but we all know she also wanted to be close to him. And, really, there's nothing wrong with that either. Long-distance relationships sound like unnecessarily hard work to me.

I know she secretly hoped he'd ask her to move into his flat right away, but he didn't, and she was too proud to broach the topic, so she had to find her own place initially. That he now finally got around to it has made her quite ecstatic – though Di postulated that at least part of that is because Jerry's place is that much bigger and offers lots more space for thrown pillows and scented candles. (I swear, if it had been possible at all, Nan would have crawled through the phone line to choke Di with her own bare hands.)

"It was good of them to take their time," decides Mrs Weisz. "And good of them to try out living together before getting married. In my day, young women married far too soon. Many came to regret it." For once, her voice does not sound wistful when talking about the past.

She never talks much about her own husband, but from what I gather, she was among those young women who 'married in haste and repented at leisure'. Judging from what little she said, he died many years ago, but despite all the photographs of dead people in her flat, I've never yet seen one of him and I doubt that I ever will.

"What about your other sister? Diana? What is she up to?" Mrs Weisz wants to know and takes a sip of coffee.

I settle in more comfortably into my chair before answering. I know she will not rest until she has asked after every last member of my family.

Thus, we spent the duration of a cup of coffee chatting, with me filling her in on the news about my family and her informing me in great detail about the latest romance novel she read. It's only when the coffee is all gone that I stand up to collect two books to return to the library and the list for next week's shopping from the little side table in the hall.

After having thus taken my leave from Mrs Weisz (not without her warning me to make sure I eat enough), I shoulder my bag again and step out of her flat to start my ascent up the stairs to my own apartment. There are distinctive advantages to living up on the top floor (not having people galumph around above your head being one of them) but having to trudge up all those stairs every time one comes home definitely isn't one.

Once inside my apartment, I drop my handbag to the floor next to the door and roll my shoulders to relax them. Not that I'd ever admit it to Mrs Weisz, but it _is_ quite a heavy bag to carry around all day.

Kicking my shoes into a corner and throwing my coat over the back of one of the two stairs in the room, I look around for any sign of George. My apartment being quite tiny (I am known to affectionately call it The Shoebox – with capital letters), he usually prefers to spend his days outside, often only coming home sometime in the evening when I do.

Apparently, that's the case today as well, for a quick perusal of the apartment shows no sign of life. And yes, that totally includes the solitary plant sitting on the window-sill. By the looks of it, there's not much life left in it anymore. Which shouldn't surprise me, I guess. I never know whether it's that I drown or parch them, but for some reason, as a rule plants don't have long to live in my care.

(Just as well that George, while never snubbing at tinned cat food – not at the right brand of cat food, anyway –, also knows how to be self-sufficient when he has to.)

As there's no cat in evidence, I close the window I usually leave open for him and turn to the task of settling in for a quiet evening. Between babysitting Joy's kids and waitressing and college and various social outings, those happen rarely enough as it is. I exchange my skirt and striped pullover for a pair of slouchy sweatpants and a well-worn T-shirt that I _think_ might have originally belonged to Shirley, before twisting my hair up into the kind of messy bun that is rarely as artful as one thinks it to be, but at least succeeds in keeping stray hairs out of one's eyes.

Plopping down on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to decide what to do with the rest of the evening. The sensible thing would be to a) tidy up the apartment (yeah, _right_ ) or b) finally tackle 'the ethical presuppositions of modern economic theory' ( _are_ there ethics in economics, I wonder?) or c) start on the novel we've been given to read in my Irish literature course (why am I bothering with a minor again?), but if I'm being honest, what I really want is just to lie here and stare at the ceiling a bit longer. It's comfortable.

Alas, the universe has other ideas. Just as I feel myself nodding off, the doorbell rings and startles me awake. With a groan of protest, I pick myself up from the bed and shuffle over to the door.

"Yes?" I ask of the intercom. I'm not actually expecting anyone, and Dad made me promise always to ask who's there before I open the door.

"I have a dress delivery," comes the answer, voice slightly distorted by the intercom.

A dress –?

Oh. Right.

Well. That was quick.

I press the button marked with a small key to buzz open the front door to the building. Then, bending down to my handbag sitting on the floor, I retrieve my phone. And indeed, there's a small envelope winking at me from the top corner of the screen, indicating an unread message. I suppose Joy's call earlier distracted me so much that I didn't notice it coming in.

I open the message – and feel myself freeze.

 _No courier for my saviour. I'll be there in an hour._

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Winds of the Old Days' (written by_ _Joan Baez_ _, released by her in 1975)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
My own cat is not orange, but otherwise as bossy as George is, so that bit was definitely inspired by my own life. My cat demands food at the most inconvenient times (and who am I to deny her?)  
Gilbert being a neurosurgeon was, of course, inspired by the story of George Moore. In figured that in this modern world, ambitious Gilbert might want to try something different from being a country doctor, and he's definitely saving lives, doing what he does here. Equally, Anne finally getting to _do _something with all her education (and not giving up writing on marriage) feels deeply satisfying.  
So far, Jake and Izzie are the only grandchildren, but there'll definitely be more to come before this story is over! There'll also be lots of Merediths around, Faith certainly among them. I haven't found a good place to work them in yet, but I promise they're going to be there for the planned family reunion. I've tried and failed before to write Jem without Faith. I'm not foolish enough to attempt it again.  
_ _I'm a psychologist myself (though not working with children), so I gave Nan a tiny bit of myself there. Whereas Di's field of work leaves me equally baffled as Rilla ;). (Yes, Di's lesbian.) Walter, meanwhile, has actually found a nifty way to put his education to good use, though unbeknownst to Rilla. I have quite a fun arc for him planned out, I promise! (For Grandma Bertha as well, come to think of it. She's quite fun to write.)  
You write the loveliest reviews, did you know that? It's rare for someone not writing their own fanfics to leave such insightful and comprehensive comments, and I'm really glad and honoured to be receiving yours. They're definitely among the reviews I look forward to the most whenever I'm posting a new chapter. So, what I'm saying is "thank you" - with rainbow sprinkles on top ;)._


	5. Don't I know your name?

_New York City, USA  
October 2010_

 **Don't I know your name?**

Normally, when people know they are about to meet royalty, they make sure that the place is tidy, that their hair is combed and their clothes achingly _appropriate_. Because, as archaic as the entire system might be, there's still something about it that makes people want to present their best side.

Looking around my messy apartment, then down at my slouchy sweatpants and ratty shirt, and knowing that there's exactly _nothing_ I can do about any of that, I feel the sudden urge to laugh. Because by the looks of it, I, who I always like to look my best in any situation, am destined to greet royalty while looking a mess for the second time in a row.

If that's karma, I'd like to know what I did wrong, at the very least.

Still, there's nothing else to it. Chin up, Rilla, and smile. Because as Grandma Bertha is wont to say, you might not always be able to change a situation, but what counts is what you make of it.

A firm knock on the door.

With one last look at my apartment (if I have just one wish, _please_ let there be no underwear lying around) I turn to open the door – and am greeted by the side of a darkly clothed person wearing a black motorcycle helmet, mirrored visor hiding their entire face.

(And even as I stand there, I can hear Dad's warning to always look through the spyhole first ringing in my ears – but that's no use _now_ , is it?)

But then my visitor reaches up to remove the helmet, revealing himself to be a certain British prince.

"Thought I'd come to kidnap you, did you?" he asks with a smile.

"No," I answer breezily. "I am perfectly aware that you'd send your martial arts-trained hitmen to do that. Can't have the royal hands get dirty, can we?"

He laughs. "Indeed not."

"Where are they, by the way?" I enquire, peering past him into the hall, but it appears to be empty.

"The martial arts-trained hitmen? Waiting downstairs. Though I'd guess at least one of them climbed up the fire escape," he replies casually, and at first, I think he's joking, but no, he appears to be quite in earnest.

I raise an eyebrow. "Aren't they worried about leaving their precious charge alone with me?"

He shrugs, then shakes his head. "From what I gather, they consider you harmless, so long as kept away from alcoholic beverages."

Oh, _ha ha_.

He meets my sarcastic smile with a real one.

"So, you did look me up after all," I point out. Because I only gave him my name an hour ago and even for martial arts-trained hitmen, that's not a long time to check someone's entire background.

"I didn't. _They_ did," he corrects. "It's their job. But I ordered them long ago not to show me the files under any circumstances, not even when I order them otherwise."

There's a story there, I realise. But I don't quite know how to ask for it – he _is_ a virtual stranger, even if years of seeing his pictures on magazine covers makes it feel as if he isn't – so I don't comment.

Instead, I take a step back and invite him to follow "Do you want to come inside?" Because it would be impolite not to ask (and if there's anything Grandmother Marilla drilled into us, it's the importance of manners) and besides – in for a penny…

"Thank you," he nods, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him. I can see him glance around quickly, but then his eyes focus back on me (and more than ever, I am uncomfortably aware of the state I'm in).

"I didn't exactly expect company," I apologise with a little gesture at the place.

"It's fine," he smiles. "It was rather impolite of me to drop in on you so unexpectedly." (Say what you want about royalty, but Grandmother Marilla would be simply delighted by _his_ manners.)

"Where can I put these?" he asks, raising his helmet with one hand and a dark garment bag I hadn't noticed before, with the other.

I reach for both, then make a 360-degree turn, looking for a place to put them. There's nowhere immediately obvious, so I compromise by hanging the garment bag on the back of the bathroom door and balancing his helmet in a stash of books next to my wardrobe.

"Why the terrifying get-up anyway?" I enquire as I turn back to him. "For a moment there I _did_ think you were a kidnapper."

"Sorry about that," he apologises, sounding as if he means it. "It's just one of very few ways for me to move around without being recognised. Not even the best paparazzi can see past that helmet. Wearing it, I could be anyone."

"But don't they recognise your motorcycle after a while?" I wonder, frowning slightly.

He nods, looking a little surprised and, for some reason, almost… pleased? "They do, actually. If I ride my own, I can't be sure that one or the other won't notice and tail me. That's why I have them rent me one if I want to travel unrecognised. By the time the press knows that one, I have moved on to the next."

Hm… clever. And yet, how awful, having to resort to such measures just for a bit of privacy.

"In that case, you shall be forgiven for scaring me," I decide. "Now, would you like something to drink?"

"Sure. What do you have on offer?"

Err…

Frowning, I turn to look at my kitchenette. "Well… I do have some rather abysmal tasting instant coffee and I _think_ there's still some tea or another in one of the cupboards, but to be honest, I'm afraid of starting a war if I so much as show you that one."

(Does tea have an expiry date, I wonder?)

He laughs quietly. "In the interest of international peace, maybe just give me a glass of water then?" he suggests.

"That'd be tap water," I warn.

He nods his approval and I move over to the sink to fill a glass. Walking back towards him, I cast a critical eye around the room. "I'd offer you a seat, but…"

But the only two chairs in the room are positively laden with clothes (the kind that are not dirty enough to warrant washing and not clean enough to go back into the wardrobe), and as there was never any hope of fitting a couch or even an armchair into my little Shoebox, I basically live in and on my bed most of the time anyway.

Well. In for a pound, right?

"Wait a minute," I ask as I hand him the glass.

Extracting a colourful quilt from under my wardrobe (one of Grandmother Marilla's friends just _loves_ quilting), I walk over to the bed, smooth out the covers (making sure to hide my nightie beneath them) and spread out the quilt to cover the entire bed. I even spy two throw pillows (a housewarming gift from Nan, if I remember correctly) on the top of my wardrobe and place them on the quilt for good measure. It's not much, but it's the best I can do.

With a rather theatrical bow, I turn back to my visitor, whom I know was watching me throughout. "If it pleases you to take a seat, Your Royal Highness?"

Lightly shaking his head, he comes over to carefully sit down beside me.

"Is that the correct way to say it? Your Royal Highness?" I enquire, mostly so as to say _something_.

"And 'Sir' thereafter," he confirms. "But you can just call me Ken, really."

I bite my lip and for three or four seconds, we look at each other silently. Then his mouth quirks up in a smile. "You have admirable self-control," he notes.

I laugh. "Do you get them often? The Barbie and Ken jokes?"

"More often than I care to count," he answers with a groan. "Back at Eton, my classmates were known to randomly leave Ken dolls lying around for me to find. At least they did until they graduated to scantily-clad Barbie dolls when we were about fifteen."

I don't know whether to find it comforting or disconcerting that even at a posh school like Eton, teenage boys are as immature as anywhere else.

"Actually, I once went on a date with a girl called Barbara," he adds thoughtfully. "She was nice and sweet and funny and the sole reason why I didn't ask her for a second date was her name."

I blink. "You're joking, right?"

"Wish that I were," he answers, sounding pained. "But no, I'm dead serious. I foresaw all the Barbie and Ken-allusions the press would come up with if they got so much of a whiff of me dating a girl called Barbara and… I couldn't do it."

It sounds fickle, but somehow, I can't blame him.

"Why did your parents name you Kenneth anyway?" I wonder instead. "Surely, they must have realised they were setting you up for a lifetime of doll-related humour?"

Ken shrugs. (I must admit, it's weird to think of him simply as _Ken_ , and dolls don't even enter into it.) "I don't think they considered it much. I'm named for my mother's brother. He died a couple of years before I was born."

I nod slowly, searching my brain for information on the Queen's brother. "I think I have heard of him. He died very young, didn't he? Some heart disease or another?" But I can't be sure, really.

"His heart gave out alright," he confirms with a wry smile. "He wasn't ill though. Or not in that sense."

When he notices my questioning gaze, he shrugs. "They found him in a nightclub loo, needle still sticking in his arm."

 _Right._

"I… I'm sorry. I didn't realise…" I stammer.

He shakes his head and gives me a quick smile, though it is gone as fast as it came. "That was the idea, actually. My mother was still married to her first husband then, but neither he nor my grandfather had any interest in the public knowing that the sole heir to the Earldom of Holderness died from an overdose. Between them, they paid a pretty penny to keep it out of the press. And after my parents married, that was that anyway. The palace knows to keep stuff like that well and truly buried. Not that everyone who's anyone doesn't _know_ about it, but they also know better than to ever mention it where it could be heard."

I open my mouth, realise I have nothing at all to say to that, and close it again.

He turns to look at me. "You should really consider journalism as a career, by the way," he informs me casually. "You have a way to make me say much more than I ever intended to." But the corner of his mouth is raised in a half-smile, letting me know that he doesn't _really_ mind (much).

"What can I say?" I reply breezily. "It's a gift."

"I'm sure it is," he agrees, "Miss Cinde _rilla_."

"Sussed that out, did you?" I ask with a laugh.

He nods. "Took me a moment, but yes. Though you did your best to throw me off with that message today, didn't you?"

For a moment, I'm not quite sure what he means, but then remember that when I messaged him my address, I didn't write down my full name but substituted my initials instead.

"I'm curious though," he continues. "How do you go from _B.M._ to _Rilla_?"

"Easy. That's Bertha Ma _rilla_ in full," I explain.

He makes a thoughtful sound. "Speaking of unusual names, right?"

I groan quietly, and he laughs. "Not a fan?"

"Not particularly, no," I admit. "I don't mind being named for either woman, don't get me wrong. It's more… there are prettier names out there, aren't they? My sister is called Diana, which is ever so much nicer."

To his credit, he doesn't agree, instead asking, "Who are you named in honour of then?"

"My grandmothers. Or, two of the three," I clarify.

He raises an eyebrow in question, making me laugh as I realise that that was hardly self-explanatory.

"See, it's like this," I begin, "Bertha is my Mum's mother. Her husband, my grandfather Walter, died from cancer when my Mum was just a teenager, so she's lived with us for pretty much my entire childhood."

He nods, his expression pensive – even a little wistful, maybe? "Must be nice, having your grandmother around to take care of you all day."

"Hardly! Grandma Bertha was never one to sit at home and watch the kiddies. She worked as teacher for most of her early life – that's where she met her husband, too – but once Mum was out of college and standing on her own feet, she started on a second career as a journalist. She was great, too! Had some really juicy stories back in the day. She is really good at getting people to admit to things."

"So that's a hereditary trait, I see," he interjects, causing me to smile.

"Who knows? Maybe it is," I concede. "Anyway, what I'm saying is, though she certainly helped looking after the lot of us, Grandma Bertha wasn't the kind to knit and bake cookies all day. And once she decided we were old enough not to need her around anymore, she switched over to being a travel journalist. Most of the year, she's travelling the world, testing special trips designed for elderly people. So far, no-one seems to have cottoned on to the fact that she's hardly the prototype of an 'elderly person'. If a tour doesn't involve a hike up a volcano or some deep-sea diving, chances are she will declare it to be boring."

He laughs. "Hardly your typical grandmother then," he states.

"Well, no. But then, neither was yours," I point out, thinking of the late Queen Alexandra, who died when I was just a toddler but who reigned for long enough to give rise to the name of 'Alexandrian Age' to describe the decades she spent on the British Throne.

A beat.

"No. Neither was mine," he agrees. And though his voice remains pleasant enough, there's a suddenly change in his posture, a _stiffening_ , that warns me not to ask any more questions on that particular subject.

(I suppose he's just enough years older than me – four years? five? – to actively remember her, even if I don't.)

"Anyhow," I therefore revert back to the previous topic, making sure to sound especially cheerful, "that's where Bertha comes from. Marilla is my father's stepmother – which explains the three grandmothers."

"So it does," he nods, his body relaxing, and gives me a smile.

Seeing as apparently, my grandmothers are an acceptable topic of conversation, even though his is not, I add, "My father's mother died when he was born – which, you know, you wouldn't _think_ that still happened in 1950, but she very much did die in childbirth, so... you know. Anyway. A couple of years later, my grandfather John married his old childhood sweetheart, so Marilla is really the only mother my Dad ever knew. She and my Granddad had a set of twins of their own a little while later, my Uncle Davy and Aunt Dora."

"They're both still alive then? The grandmothers you were named for?" he asks, sounding genuinely interested.

I nod. "Hence why I always go by the nickname. If someone calls me either Bertha or Marilla, I'm more likely to look behind me and wonder what my grandmothers are doing here."

"Rilla," he repeats slowly. "It's interesting. Unique. No dolls by that name either."

"No," I admit, laughing. "No, there aren't. And besides, even with the names I've got, I suppose it could have been worse."

"How so?" he wonders.

I take a second the get the wording right. "Not wanting to sound disrespectful, but I _could_ have been settled with the name of Dad's mother. I mean, I get the sentiment of honouring her that way, but…"

"But it's not a pretty name?" he finishes when I break off, borrowing my expression from earlier.

"It's Millicent, so… no, not a pretty name," I admit with an apologetic shrug. "I was lucky in that my parents had already given it as a middle name to my sister Nan, I reckon. That's how that particular cup passed me by."

"If it hadn't, you would have been a Milly," he points out. Once again, his expression is amiable enough, and yet…

And yet, as I look at him a little closer, I see a particular glint in his eyes.

Is he… is he _teasing_ me?

I give him my best haughty glare, just in case, and he laughs.

"When it comes to names, you're the one sitting in the glass house, not me," I inform him.

He shrugs, unconcerned. "As with you, it could have been worse for me as well."

I eye him dubiously, eliciting a smile from him. "How's that?" I want to know.

"At least my parents had the presence of mind not to call me Albert. It was a fine name for a prince back when Victoria's consort lived and even back in the '50s when my uncle was born, but nowadays…" He lets the sentence hang, merely raising a meaningful eyebrow.

It takes me a moment to piece together name and title, but when I do, I give a surprised burst of laughter. "That's hardly a subject for polite conversation!" I chide him.

He grins, but when he speaks, it's all pretended innocence. "The Prince Consort? I'll have you know that he was a very educated man. Some even call him a visionary. There's nothing wrong in bringing him up in conversation."

"No," I reply, meeting his act of innocence with one of annoyance. " _Not_ the Prince Consort."

"My uncle then?" he queries, and even as he speaks, his mask of polite cluelessness is already starting to slip, revealing the mirth beneath. "You know… yeah, you might be right on that account. We do not much talk about Uncle Al in polite society."

"Glad we got that cleared up then," I deadpan.

He smirks.

"Are they in any way connected, what do you think?" I wonder, if only to prove that I'm _not_ prudish, whatever my sister says.

"We-ell," he answers, drawing out the word. "Uncle Al is certainly named for the Prince Consort. As for that other thing… I could always ask him if he knows anything about that."

"You wouldn't!" I exclaim, not quite knowing whether to be amused or aghast.

He makes a show of shrugging, as if to say that yes, he totally would. (Which I take leave to doubt, honestly!)

"Speaking of inappropriate things I am meant to find out for you," he states instead, grinning when I look up indignantly, "I looked into those accusations against Anne Boleyn and her brother."

"That was _my_ exclusive," I mutter.

"And I'm sure you'll find plenty else to chat about with the ghost of Anne Boleyn when you meet her," he replies easily. "You could find out her date of birth, for one. Apparently, historians have been at each others' throats about that one for ages."

"Noted," I nod. "Now, what did your sister find out about those accusations?"

His face registers surprise. "Persis? She didn't find out a thing. From what I gather, she took one look at those old documents and their spelling and decided she wasn't that keen on knowing after all."

"Who else did you talk to then? Do name your source, please," I ask, as primly as possible.

"Why, Anne Boleyn's ghost, of course," he answers, deadpan, and laughs when I roll my eyes at him.

"Ghost stories aside," he then adds, more soberly, "I had my private secretary contact a Cambridge professor specialising in Tudor History. From what she said, the accusations against Anne Boleyn – those of incest and adultery – are largely believed to be untrue nowadays."

And somehow, much more so than the potential inappropriateness of princely names, that sentence drives home quite how… _different_ his life is from mine. I don't even know if it's the private secretary or the fact that he can just randomly contact Cambridge professors about historic trivia – and get an actual answer! – but something about it reminds me with a jolt that the man sitting beside me on Mrs Lynde's quilt will one day have his own life studied by historians.

When I don't reply, he turns to look at me curiously. "I'd ask if a cat got your tongue," he states, not unkindly, "but by the looks of it, the cat is still waiting to be let in."

He nods towards the window and indeed, on the other side of it sits a disgruntled-looking George. It is immediately obvious from his expression that he's been trying to catch my attention for a while now.

"George!" I exclaim, hurrying over to the window to let him in. "I'm sorry. I really didn't see you there," I apologise, but he just stalks past me, not even deigning to spare me a glance, his expression one of obvious disdain. (And I suppose he has a point, doesn't he? Prince or no prince, I let myself get distracted by a _man_ , when George is of the opinion that he's the only male worthy of a place in my life.)

"George is quite an unusual name for a cat as well," remarks the man in question from where he is still sitting on the bed, watching George and me with obvious amusement.

I shrug. "Oh, it's really George the Third," I reply by way of explanation as I walk over to the kitchenette to set out some dry food for my feline overlord.

Ken laughs. "Of course. Because _that_ 's such a normal name for a cat, isn't it?"

He, too, has a point, I must say.

Seeing as George seems intent on ignoring me, even as he starts devouring the food I offer him, I instead return to where my visitor is sitting. (At least he's in a much better overall mood than the cat.)

"What happened to George One and Two?" he asks as I sit down next to him again, drawing a knee up against my chest.

"They never existed," I explain. "George is the first of his kind – and, if he has his way, the last as well."

"Clearly," nods Ken, quite as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Am I to take that to mean that he is named for my most revered ancestor then?"

Uh-huh. _Different_ alright…

"He's both very regal and absolutely mad," I reply with a shrug. "I thought it fitting."

"Indeed," he agrees, very amiably in light of the fact that I not just insulted my own cat but his royal ancestor as well.

"His grandeur is immediately obvious," he adds thoughtfully. "What makes him mad though?"

I wave a hand around breezily. "Oh, different things. He likes to be creative in his endeavours of insanity. My last boyfriend, for example, apparently had ears that just begged to be bitten into. At least George thought so."

In what I think is an unconscious gesture, Ken raises a hand to touch his own ear. "Why did he do that?"

"Would that I know," I answer with a wry smile. "I'm not sure George needs a reason. He's never done it with anyone else before or since, but every time poor Tristan so much as sat down, George was sure to sneak up on him, jump onto his back with no warning and try to bite his ear. He once memorably even assaulted him by jumping down from the wardrobe. And I don't think I slept through the night even once with those two in the same room."

"I can imagine," agrees Ken, laughing softly. "The real – nay, the _human_ George III was once rumoured to have shaken the branch of a tree in greeting, believing him to be the Prussian King."

"Ouch."

"Right you are. Especially seeing as his doctors were prone to treating him with caustic poultices," relays Ken.

I pull a face. "Caustic? That's not nice." Then, louder to where George is still audibly munching on his food, "See? You only ever get shouted at and that's more than enough to send you off into a sulk."

But, true to form, George doesn't even raise his head. Because apparently, for a cat considering himself a king, the visit of a royal prince is all in a day's work.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Tangled Up in Blue' (written by_ _Bob Dylan_ _released by_ _him in 1975_ _)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Your reviews make perfect sense! They're very lovely and much appreciated, too :). (You sure I can't persuade you to open your own account? We could chat much easier that way.)  
I'd say your most burning questions about Rilla's various grandmothers should be answered by now. There's still more to say about them and we will meet them in due course, as we will meet the entire family. I haven't written that yet, but it should be fun!  
No, Izzie does not forgive. Not boys. On principle. ;)  
Ah, yes, Robert is quite unfortunate. He's a lovely man and means well, he just has (unknowingly) really bad timing. He's definitely quite the catch though, even if Rilla can't see it, and I have decided he will go on to marry a lovely Dutchwoman and have three children with her and live a long and successful life. How does that sound?  
I'm glad you like Mrs Weisz. She kind of walked into this chapter and refused to be cast out again. She's an... opinionated character and won't be told no. Hence why she stays and why we definitely haven't seen the last of her! She and Rilla do a good job of caring for each other, and we all know Mrs Weisz likes to snoop, so what's betting she already knows there's someone at the door for Rilla?  
I widened the age gap between Nan and Jerry a little for this story (from 3 years to 4.5), when I spaced out all Blythe and Merediths children over a greater time span to give both Anne and Cecilia a bit more time to breath. I had to keep the age gap between Jem and Faith steady at two years for story purposes, so that pulled Nan and Jerry a bit further apart. But I think it makes their relationship a bit more interesting because Jerry is already pretty settled and Nan's endless studies keep her in limbo. I have some interesting plans for them.  
By the way, I definitely should have liked a name that can be shortened to cat name-diminutives, so you should count yourself lucky there! My name never got shortened to anything, which can be quite boring.  
_


	6. Go on pretending

_New York City, USA  
October 2010_

 **Go on pretending**

"…but it's a masterpiece, darling. It's one of the premier novels of the 20th century, maybe ever!" Mum exclaims through the loudspeaker of my phone.

"You have to say that," I point out, as I move to open the door and wave Ken inside with a motion of my hand. "You're the English professor."

She laughs brightly. "I liked it long before becoming an English professor."

"Well, and I _don't_ like it. It's all over the place," I huff, shaking my head at Ken's questioningly raised eyebrows.

"It's called a stream of consciousness," Mum informs me, clearly amused.

I roll my eyes for Ken's benefit and he smiles. "I know what it's called. I still don't like it," I persist. "And I have absolutely no idea how I'm supposed to write an essay on it. Nan said to write about how he set the novel on June 16th because that's when he first went out with his future wife, but she was _laughing_ when she advised to do that, and I don't think I trust her."

"Normally, I'd ask you to be more trusting of your sister, but in this case, you might be right not to do that," Mum agrees and she, too, is laughing.

Clearly, there's a joke there I'm not getting. I look to Ken for help, but he is grinning as well, his head turned slightly to the side.

"Why's that?" I ask Mum instead.

"Ah, well… how to put this delicately?" she ponders. "Let's just say she put her hand where girls in 1904 didn't usually put their hands when going out with a boy for the first time."

So that means…

I'm going to _kill_ Nan.

"Are you telling me that when people are celebrating Bloomsday…?" I begin, letting the question hang unfinished.

Mum chuckles. "Uh-huh. That's _exactly_ what they are celebrating."

Well.

I wonder if that's common knowledge?

"So, I won't write about that," I conclude.

"Best not," agrees Mum. Ken backs her up with a nod.

"Any better advice?" I ask.

She makes a thoughtful sound. "You might write about Molly. Nabokov considered her monologue the weakest chapter of the novel, but I always thought it quite compelling in places."

"That's right at the end where Joyce forgets about the proper use of punctuation altogether, isn't it?" I clarify. "No, thanks. I'm going to stand with Nabokov on that one." (Not that I stand with Nabokov on very many other things. Lolita is all kinds of disturbing, whatever everyone else says!)

"In that case, you might honour your father and write your essay on the Gilbert schema," Mum suggests.

I frown at the phone. "For one, I don't think Dad would consider it an honour," I point out. "For another, he'll have notes on you jumping from _Nabokov_ to him as quickly as that." Because there's subtext there, isn't it?

Mum laughs. "Yes, he will," she concedes. "So, write about the use of time in the novel, then. Not even you can take offense at that one."

I wrinkle my nose. "Not offense, no. But I still have absolutely nothing to say on the matter."

Mum sighs. "I suppose I can send you some of my notes," she remarks, though clearly reluctant.

"That would be amazing," I beam. "You're the best!"

"But that'll be the last time," Mum warns. "You really should do your studies on your own."

"Sure, Mum. Whatever you say, Mum," I agree, not meaning a word of it.

"I'm serious, Rilla," she adds, picking up on my _very_ thinly-veiled insincerity. (But we both know she's not going to stick to it. She hasn't in the past, why start now?)

"Of course, you are," I nod. "You're still the best though. And I've got to run. Love you!"

"I love you, too, daughter of mine," Mum concedes with a long-suffering sigh.

I blow the phone a kiss she can't see, before I cut the call and turn back to Ken. He's watching me with evident amusement.

"Ulysses?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I groan. "Ulysses. Mum just tried to convince me of its general amazingness for close to an hour, but I still think Joyce was trolling when he wrote that one."

"Or tripping," Ken adds. "He was a known drunk."

"Or tripping," I agree as I take his helmet from him and set it down on a free space on the kitchen counter.

"Why are you subjecting yourself to it anyway?" he wants to know. When I turn back to look at him, I see that he has picked up the copy of Ulysses from where it lay on the floor next to my bed.

I grimace. "Not voluntarily. I was just naïve enough to choose a course on Irish literature this term."

"An English scholar, then?" he asks, putting the book down again.

"Minor," I clarify. "My major is economics." With a nod towards it, I invite him to sit down on the bed (prepared into its sofa-like state in advance this time).

"What made you pick those subjects?" he enquires as he sits down, sounding genuinely interested.

I shrug. "Truth to be told, after graduating school, I didn't have the foggiest what I wanted to study. I took a gap year first but while that was nice, it didn't get me any further in figuring out a subject of study. I ended up choosing English Literature because I like to read. Economics, I originally tagged on as a minor because it seemed useful to know a thing or two about numbers."

"Compelling reasoning," he smiles.

I cast a half-hearted glare into his direction. "Not really. And I know it, too. But it's not an easy thing, having to choose your career at eighteen. I mean, who has their life figured out that young?"

Looking to him for an answer, I can see his expression shift just the tiniest bit. It's only then that I realise that by necessity, he had his life figured out much earlier than that. He was born to be King, wasn't he?

"Right. Sorry," I apologise.

He shakes his head. "It's fine."

Truth to be told, I don't _think_ it is, but I don't want to pry either.

Instead, I prattle on, "That my reasoning was pretty shoddy is evident in the fact that, just a couple of months into my first year, I realised that I'm not cut out to be an English scholar. More often than not, the characters in those reading assignments made me want to scream at them. Or hit them over the head, preferably with something sharp. Whereas the maths I had to do for my economics courses wasn't quite as bad as I thought it would be."

"So, you switched," concludes Ken.

I nod confirmation. "Not that my economic courses are all that interesting, but at least they don't make me want to scream – much."

"It's hardly riveting stuff," he agrees. "I had some economic courses as part of my degree as well and they could be… dry."

"What did you study anyway?" I ask curiously.

"PPE," is his answer, which, let's be honest, is no answer at all.

"What's that?" I want to know, frowning in confusion. "The study of the Purple People Eater?"

For a moment, he just stares at me, unblinking. Then – "Excuse me, but… the _what_ now?"

"The Purple People Eater," I supply helpfully. "He eats purple people, see?"

"Evidently," Ken nods, though still clearly disbelieving.

"Makes him very unfrightening, if you think about it," I muse. "If he only eats purple people, not very many humans have anything to fear from him."

"None at all, I should think?" he asks, his eyebrows rising to almost touch his hairline.

I incline my head pensively. "We can't be sure. The world is a strange place with strange people in it. I wouldn't want to bet on there not being a purple one somewhere."

"No. No, me either," he agrees, shaking his head lightly.

"Either way, I take it you didn't study the Purple People Eater then?" I ask, eyeing him with some amusement.

He laughs. "No. PPE is short for 'Philosophy, politics and economics'. It's Oxford's course for people planning to enter politics or civil service," he explains. "Ask any three politicians in the UK and I guarantee you one of them studied PPE."

"Why did you choose it?" I ask.

Now he's the one shrugging. "It was deemed a worthwhile addition to my training," he answers simply.

His training for Kingship, that is.

Weird.

"What would you have studied if it had been up to you?" I want to know. I'm not altogether sure whether I'm not overstepping a line with that question, but if I'm the only one talking about myself, this conversation is in danger of becoming rather skewed, isn't it?

He, however, looks thoughtful more than anything. "I can't really tell you," he admits after a moment. "As you said, it's not like most people have their professional interests all figured out at eighteen. And PPE wasn't a bad choice by any means. There was lots of variety and opportunities to explore things that interested you. It was fine."

Once more, I'm not wholly convinced that 'fine' really does mean _fine_ in this context, but I also don't want to push him after having just gotten an honest answer.

"My siblings got to choose their own subjects and those are decidedly _not_ useful," he adds. "So maybe PPE really was for the best."

"What are they studying?" I ask. (Because let's be honest, he fed me that question, didn't he?)

I know both his siblings are some years younger than he is (more my age than his, I gather), so I assume that whatever they choose to study, they're still in the process of doing so.

"Teddy is up in Edinburgh studying architecture. Which is a proper degree to have at least, though of limited use to someone destined for a life of representation," he answers. "Persis, predictably, found herself a course specialising in equestrianism at some weird little college close to the Welsh border."

"She's quite a good rider, isn't she?" To the point that I think she got chosen to represent the UK at some eventing competition or another a couple of month ago, despite being just… nineteen or something. I remember it being all over the news, though I don't think she won anything.

"She is. Ought to be, really, considering how much time she spends with those horses," Ken confirms. "And you can rest easy in the knowledge that studying equestrian sciences because one likes to ride is no worse than studying English because one likes to read."

I roll my eyes at him and he laughs.

With a quick glance over towards the microwave (which remains the only clock I have in this apartment), I get to my feet. "Are you good on your own for a moment? I still have to change before we leave." This with a wave at my clothes – a formfitting pair of jeans and cute little top, because as long as I have a say on the matter, I'm sure as anything not going to let him catch me looking a mess ever again.

"Is the ear-biting cat around?" Ken asks with a wary glance around the room.

"No worries, you're safe from him," I assure with a laugh. "He's out romancing yet another cat. I think his current conquest is the black and white one from number 75, but I might be wrong. He moves through them rather quickly."

"So, he's a veritable Casanova," Ken concludes earnestly. "Lots of little Georges running around the place, I assume?"

I shake my head forcefully. "I have _opinions_ on people letting their animals run around and procreate uncontrolled," I inform him a little indignantly. "We have enough homeless cats out on the streets as it is. I had George neutered before he was old enough to realise he was missing anything."

Ken pulls a face in sympathy. "Ouch."

"He got over it," I reply mercilessly.

"Had to, by the sound of it," Ken points out. "It's not like you asked him for permission, is it?"

"Well, you don't usually, do you? Takes away the element of surprise," I remark with a fine little smile.

I wait just long enough for astonishment to register on his face, then duck into the bathroom, holding back laughter.

Quite how we got talking about Halloween back when he brought me the substitute dress a couple of days ago, I don't remember, but he mentioned that he'd like to experience a proper American Halloween party just once. And seeing as I got invited to not one but several such parties tonight, that's a wish I can actually easily fulfil. Normally, I'd worry he doesn't quite know what he was signing up for, attending a boozy party full of college students, but evidence points to him being able to handle himself just fine.

Seeing as I already did my hair and makeup earlier when talking to mum – complete with fake blood-splatter and some _very_ dark circles under my eyes – I only need to swap my clothes for today's costume, being careful not to smudge my makeup in doing so. It's not made easier by the fact that my bathroom is only _just_ big enough to turn around in it, but the dress pulls on easily enough and I just about manage.

When I step out of the bathroom, I pause in the doorway for just long enough to let Ken recognise the dress. When he does, he bursts out laughing.

I handed off the substitute dress to Joy yesterday, making a bit of a show about having always forgotten it earlier. Not that Joy gave it a second thought anyway. Only Dan's face showed some quiet confusion at the pristine state of the dress, because he, after all, saw the wine-induced mess. He's far too discreet to mention it to Joy though, and far too polite to question my aside about that great dry cleaner's down the road, so there's little to fear from him.

With the new dress safely tucked away in Joy's wardrobe, I was, of course, still left with the old one. And while I still entertain some vague plans about dyeing it somehow (I _must_ remember to ask Grandmother Marilla how one goes about dyeing a dress), I first decided to utilise it as a Halloween costume. Because while the wine stains look like wine stains in stark light, they should pass muster as blood stains at a dimly lit party.

"What are you supposed to be, then?" asks Ken, still chuckling to himself.

"Why, I'm a sexy murder victim, of course," I answer, quite as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Far be it from me to call this fact into question but is the 'sexy' part vital to the costume?" he wants to know.

I nod earnestly. "Yes. It's what makes it a Halloween costume in the first place. Otherwise, it would merely be a simple costume, but tag 'sexy' in front and almost everything turns into an adequate Halloween costume. I mean, there's sexy nurse, sexy teacher, sexy accountant, sexy smurf –"

"Wait," he interrupts. "Do people really dress up as sexy smurfs?"

"What did you think? Sexy smurf is _nothing_. This is, after all, the one night in the year when hotdog suddenly becomes an adequate couple's costume," I inform him.

A moment passes in silence.

"Hotdog," he then repeats slowly.

"Uh-huh," I nod.

"So, you mean…"

"Uh-huh."

He blinks. "Subtle."

"Isn't it?"

Our eyes meet, and I feel a giggle rising up within me. He, too, is obviously fighting a smile threatening to break through his sombre façade. We hold it together for a moment or two longer, then both start laughing.

"Some people, I swear," he states, his expression veering between amusement and slight disbelief.

"See, that's why I won't bet again some people turning themselves purple either," I point out with a shrug. "But now do tell, what's your costume? Motorcycle-riding kidnapper?" Because he looks no different from last time when he was here – all darkly clothed, but otherwise pretty normal-looking.

"Ah, no," he shakes his head, reaching for a bag sitting by his feet. Out of it he pulls a black cape, a yellow emblem he proceeds to stick to his chest and a familiar black mask with pointy… _things_ attached to it.

"I'm Batman," he clarifies. "Or should that be _sexy_ Batman?"

I incline my head and consider him for a moment. As far as costumes go, his is a rather simple one – lacklustre, some might call it – but it suffices. "You're good either way," I decide.

He bends his head in a mock-bow. "Thank you very much, milady."

"Why Batman?" I inquire, while taking a pair of shoes from the floor beside my wardrobe and sitting back down next to him so I can put them on. I kept the pretty purple ones I originally wore with this dress (because let's be honest, they'd just gather dust in Joy's closet), but much as I wanted to wear them again, I decided on an older, far cheaper pair instead. I've had beer sloshed over my feet far too often at these parties to risk those shoes.

"It's pretty much my go-to costume for the admittedly seldom events when I need one," Ken explains with a shrug. "The mask keeps enough of my face covered so that people who don't expect me to be there don't recognise me, while still not forcing me to drink out of a straw like some two-year-old."

"Clever," I acknowledge as I get to my feet again.

Ken inclines his head slightly in reply, before pointing to my phone sitting on the windowsill. "I think you got a message while you were in there. It beeped, anyway."

Quickly collecting my phone, I click to open the unread message, frowning as I read it.

"Bad news?" asks Ken, obviously having seen the frown.

Making a conscious effort to clear my expression, I shake my head. "No, just some guy." Then, after a second thought – "Actually, you might remember him. I was talking to him at that reception just before deciding to barrel into the poor waiter."

"I do remember him, actually. He looked quite keen," Ken notes thoughtfully. "What's his name?"

"Robert. He's from…" I break off, the frown back in place.

"From?" Ken prompts with a little smile.

I sigh. "Well, I know it's not Mombasa and not Kinshasa, but I can't seem to remember the actual place. It sounded similar, though."

"Not Awasa, by any chance?" he supplies.

I look at him, surprised. "Yes, that's it, actually. How do you know it?"

Ken shrugs. "It's a city in Ethiopia. Quarter of a million inhabitants, or thereabouts. I went there when I did an official tour of some Eastern African countries some years back. They have the only football club outside of Addis Ababa that ever won their National League," he answers.

I blink. "Well, the more you know…"

"My people always feed me trivia before sending me anywhere. Helps with the small talk," Ken explains with a laugh. "Lots of it is both useful and meaningful, but for some reason, only the odd facts seem to stick."

The curious thing about him is that I increasingly find myself forgetting that he is who he is until things like this come up to remind me and I want to pinch myself again.

"Speaking of your people", I begin slowly. "Are your martial arts-trained hitmen alright with you attending a college party? I imagine they wouldn't like it much."

"Oh, they don't. The words 'security nightmare' were thrown around a lot," Ken agrees, though he seems quite unconcerned by the fact.

"How come they let you go?" I want to know.

"Mostly because no-one expects me to be there. You and they are the only people who are aware of me going to that party, so if I manage to keep my face hidden, my chances of being found out are slim. People tend to see what they expect to see, so even if someone notices a resemblance, they won't think I'm the real me."

"Just an imposter in a Batman costume?" I suggest with a smile.

"A _sexy_ Batman costume," he corrects, and I laugh. "But yes," he adds, "That's the general idea. As long as I'm not recognised, the PPOs – the _Personal Protection Officers_ , that is – won't have much to do. They'll still stick close and I had to swear not to take off the tracker, but –"

I interrupt him before he gets any further. "A _tracker_? Not a GPS tracker, surely?"

"Actually, yes," he nods, quite matter-of-fact. "They don't put one on me all the time, but in situations like this one, it makes for a good compromise."

How he can be so calm about getting _tracked_ leaves me a bit aghast, but then… I guess he's used to his every step being followed, isn't he?

"Does that agreement with your hitmen also extend to us riding the Underground to get to the party?" I wonder as I grab hold of my coat.

He actually scoffs. "Only if we want to give them an apoplectic shock."

"Do we?" I ask innocently, drawing a smile from him.

"We might consider it at times, but they're only doing their jobs, after all" Ken relents. "We won't needlessly complicate that by going anywhere near places like the Underground."

"So, we'll be good then," I conclude. "Noted. How else do we intend to get to the party? I'm not getting on any motorcycles in this dress, lest that was the idea."

"I can see how that would be a complicated endeavour," Ken agrees after a look at my dress. Then he takes my coat from me and holds it open for me to step into it. (Twenty-one years and this is the first time ever that a man has helped me into my coat!)

"I thought we might take a cab," he adds as he pulls his mask into place, checking his reflection in my window, turned into a mirror by the dark behind it.

I actually laugh. "I thought you wanted to be incognito?"

He turns to look at me and though it's hard to read is expression with half of his face covered up like that, I think I detect confusion. "Yes. Why?"

"College students don't take cabs. College students don't have _money_ for cabs," I inform him. "The best way to draw attention to us is to ride to the front door in a cab."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, obviously stumped. I let a second pass before taking pity on him. "But I suppose we could have the cab drop us off around the corner and walk the rest of the way."

Under the mask, his face brightens. "That should work," he agrees.

Dropping my phone into my bag and grabbing hold of my keys, I point him towards the front door. "We also need a cover story," I remind him. "There'll be some classmates of mine running around for sure and I promised a couple of friends I'd meet them there."

I pull the door shut behind us both and lock it tightly. (When I moved in, Dad had an additional lock and a deadbolt installed. I didn't have the heart to point out to him that if someone wanted to kidnap me, they'd just use the fire escape and come in through the window.)

"I'm your acquaintance from England, of course," Ken replies as we walk down the stairs side by side. "I lived a very boring and sheltered life, and someone made you take on my case and show me how college students in America live." His voice is sounds serious enough, but I can see the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

Nodding thoughtfully, I add, "My sister's boyfriend lived in England for a while some years back. We could always say you're a friend of his, currently in New York because… because reasons?"

"I was sent here by my company for a temporary work assignment," Ken supplies. "Since I know no-one, your sister's boyfriend asked you to look out for me a bit."

"Yes, sounds like Jerry alright," I agree. "Do you also have a name?"

And is it just me or has he been waiting for me to ask that?

"Marmaduke's the name. Marmaduke Winslow," he announces proudly, and it sounds just so patently _absurd_ , that I'm still giggling when he holds open the front door for me and we step out into the dark.

He might be in disguise tonight, but somehow I have a feeling that an evening spent with one Marmaduke Winslow will hold plenty of amusement of its own kind.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'We Are the World' (written by_ _Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie_ _, released by_ _USA for Africa in 1985_ _)._

* * *

 _A/N: In case anyone is wondering, Teddy is my creation. Humour me, yes? ;)_

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
You're right, I inadvertently made twins a Blythe family trait! And while Anne and Gilbert won't be the focus of this story, we definitely will meet them. I don't think the will be very much changed from the original books, but mostly because LMM isn't making it easy for anyone to puzzle out the "nature vs. nurture" debate with her characters. I mean, Anne's childhood must have been awful, but LMM never really goes there, so it's hard to say how much of Anne's behaviour is nature and how much is (lack of) nurture. (Millicent Blythes, sadly, is my collateral damage in this new family set-up. RIP Millicent!)  
I really enjoyed your musings about the late Queen Alexandra, because of course there's a story there. She never seriously considered replacing Owen as heir, seeing as Uncle Al would have been next in line and no-one wants Uncle Al anywhere near the throne. But that's not to say that she accepted Leslie with her difficult past and even more difficult family history into the family with open arms. So... you're onto something there ;).  
"Ken" is an unfortunate name in today's time, no argument. That's why I decided to be offensive about it and get the weirdness of the name out of the way early. Though Barbie dolls still had underwear moulded into the plastic of their bodies when I was a child, so there Marilyn moments were comparatively tame ;). (I'd also just like to put it out there that I'm interested to learn about that story of yours, should you ever feel comfortable sharing more about it.)  
'Diamonds and Rust' is one of my all-time favourite songs and was, in fact, a front runner for story title. I do love me some Joan Baez (in fact, I saw her live just this past summer). And as for Bob Dylan, you can always rely on him to turn a pretty phrase, though he does have a curious obsession with the symbolism of playing cards ;).  
_

 _To ImPhilBlake:  
_ _Hello and thanks for your review! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and that you agree with the twist I put on the family relations. There's less Anne in Marilla's life that way, but also far less loneliness. (I haven't decided what to do about Matthew yet, by the way, so he might pop up at some point as well. Or he might not. I'm still considering.)_


	7. Haven't seen him for a while

_New York City, USA  
November 2010_

 **Haven't seen him for a while**

With a clank, the tray is plonked on the table beside mine.

"So, are you calling dibs?" asks Nia, plopping down on the chair next to me.

I look from her to her tray and back again. "I'm sorry?"

"I was asking if you're calling dibs," she repeats unhelpfully.

Across from us, Seraphina takes a seat, watching us with mild amusement.

Nia and Seraphina are best of friends but come from wildly different backgrounds. Case in point: Seraphina's mother runs the local DAR chapter ( _Daughters of the American Revolution_ , that is) in a way to make Emily Gilmore proud while Nia's makes ends meet, working night shifts in a retirement home. I still don't know whether the person assigning them a shared dorm room back in our freshman year (dorm living being mandatory for first-years) was mad or a covert genius, but they struck up an unlikely friendship that survived all differences.

I met them because chance (or that genius in college administration) placed their dorm room right across the hall from mine. A mere two months into first term, I spent half my nights camping out on their floor instead of facing my own roommate, who was otherwise quite sweet and had a convenient cleaning bug but was also very eager to save my soul. The first time I stumbled home in the small hours of the morning after a party, she staged an unasked for intervention and attempted to talk to me about Jesus. (Jesus and hangovers don't mix, let me tell you.) The floor in Nia and Seraphina's room might have done its bit in ruining my back (assisted by my too large bags), but they never once attempted to talk to me about my own damnation.

While I, predictably, moved out at first chance (first into Joy's spare room and later into The Shoebox), Seraphina and Nia happily stayed on in their shared dorm room, much to the horror of Seraphina's mother. She hadn't even gotten over the shock of her precious daughter studying to be a vet and was dealt with the further blow of Seraphina preferring a filthy dorm to the posh little apartment her mother had picked out for her. I gather that neither decision is DAR-approved and Seraphina's mother seems to care an awful lot about what the women in her DAR chapter approve of (which isn't very much, from what I understand).

"What am I supposed to call dibs on?" I now enquire of Nia.

"Not what," she corrects, making a play at looking exasperated, " _who_."

I know who she's talking about. Truth to be told, I had an idea all along. But, not wanting to make this easy, I merely incline my head and look at her.

"That hottie you took to the party on Sunday," she clarifies with an eye-roll.

"Didn't he wear a mask all night?" pipes up Seraphina over the dim of the cafeteria. "How can you tell he was hot?"

"He was _fit_ ," points out Nia. "I don't need to see his face to know _that_."

Not that his face is a let-down either. But of course, I don't say that.

"Why would I be calling dibs on him?" I ask, though mostly to stall. Nia might be the genius among us (what with her grants and scholarships and studying something about nuclear engineering that left me entirely baffled the one time I tried to understand it), but I'm not _that_ dense.

"You brought him," Seraphina notes with an earnest nod. "You get first call."

God. If only they _knew_!

"It's really not like that," I try to deflect.

"Not like how?" asks Nia, wriggling her eyebrows, and I know fully well she's baiting me and rise to it anyway.

"Like _that_ ," I persist. "I don't know him all that well. I only met him twice before Sunday."

"So, you can't tell us if he knows how to put that fit body to good use?" Nia wonders innocently, though barely concealing her smirk.

Seraphina chokes on her soda from laughing. I roll my eyes.

"As a matter of fact, no, I can't," I answer, feeling a tinge of genuine annoyance. I know it's unfair, because Nia's just taking the mickey as she often does, but just today, I find it slightly irritating.

Picking up on my annoyance, Nia extends a companionable arm and places it around my shoulders. "Just joking," she assures with a brilliant smile. "No hard feelings, right?"

And just like that, she's got me again. "No. It's fine," I reply and mean it. It's hard to stay mad at Nia for any length of time.

On the other side of the table, Seraphina takes a moment to wipe soda from her chin, before turning to consider me curiously.

"You realise you just totally called dibs on him, don't you?" she asks cheerfully.

I sigh.

As a matter of fact, yes, I do realise that. Because you don't get unnecessarily annoyed at your friend's completely good-natured joking if you don't care at all, do you?

"I meant it when I said it's not like that. We never did more than talk." But there's no vehemence behind my words and I know it.

"You _did_ dance on Sunday," Seraphina points out helpfully.

Which is true. We did dance. Not the kind of dancing that bears commenting upon and not in any way unlike I danced with several other guys as well, but still. I won't deny it felt nicer, dancing with him, than dancing with most of the others.

It was a nice evening in general. Ken totally played up the kooky Englishman angle, much to his obvious delight. How many of my friends actually bought it, I'm not sure, but they included him willingly enough and didn't ask too many questions. (Couldn't, really, considering how loud the music was blasting.)

We shared a cab back to my place in the early hours of morning, at which point one of his fabled protection officers finally made an appearance, thus proving that they do, indeed, exist. Taking the keys to his motorcycle from Ken, the protection officer (dressed as a very grumpy-looking bumblebee, which had me stifling giggles throughout) bundled him into a non-descriptive sedan already filled with several other shadowy people. Somewhere in-between, Ken did manage the briefest of hugs goodbye, which… it was nice, I won't deny that.

"But that's really everything we did," I persist, because it's not like the dance or that hug changed anything at all. He's… he's perfectly nice, isn't he, but he's also a _prince_ , for crying out loud! He's this famous, important person and I'm me and even if I _did_ call dibs on him, it's patently absurd to think that anything could ever become of this.

"Any chance of it changing?" asks Nia kindly and squeezes my shoulder.

I shake my head forcefully. "No. He's going back to England in a couple of days anyway."

"Permanently?" enquires Seraphina.

"Well, no," I admit. "He said he expects to be back soon-ish."

"So, there might yet come something of it," points out Seraphina with a satisfied smile. She likes a good romance story, Seraphina does. She's got that in common with Mrs Weisz.

"I… no. No, really. There won't. It's not like that," I argue again, causing Nia to pat my shoulder in the way you would do to someone quite deluded.

Their conspiratorial smiles tell me that I did little to convince them, but they mercifully don't pry further. Which is just as well, for as it turns out, time proves me right on all accounts.

Because as days turn first into one week and then two, there's not one word from him. Complete and total radio silence.

He said before that he needed to return to England for some days to attend a remembrance event and some other royal engagements, and when I go looking for them, I do find pictures of him laying a wreath at a memorial, dressed in a very fancy uniform indeed, as well as photos of him in a factory or another and what looks like a retirement home. It's all very princely and professional and the man in the pictures only has an outward similarity to the one sitting on my bed in a Batman costumes just a while ago.

And it's not that I _expect_ him to get in touch. I don't, really. He brought me the dress and I took him to that party. That's it. There's nothing more to it and there was nothing to suggest that our acquaintance would ever go further than that. There's no reason at all for him to contact me ever again and I know that fully well.

And yet…

It would have been… well, _nice_. It would have been nice.

Sighing, I burrow my fingers in George's fur, earning an irritated glare in response.

"You're quite gloomy today, little sister," Nan remarks and I turn my attention back to the screen just in time to see her incline her head thoughtfully.

It's Sunday, two weeks to the day since the Halloween party and I have to admit that I caught very little of our weekly Skype chat so far.

Not that I seem to have missed much. I already saw Jake's latest geology project with my own eyes (he's somehow built a model of a volcano that erupts when you press a button) and spent an hour listening to Izzie prattling away about her dancing lessons, so Joy was telling me nothing new. And while the _cause_ of Di and Ebony's latest lovers' spat might have been a new one, the fact that they are spatting isn't. Their relationship is enough to give anyone whiplash just from being told about it.

"I'm just tired." Which isn't even a total lie. I _am_ tired.

Not that my sisters are buying it either way. Nor did I really expect them to.

Joy clucks her tongue. "Pish-posh. You've been quiet all week."

"Yes, spill!" demands Di.

"Is it a guy?" asks Nan, more kindly than the other two.

I shake my head. "It's nothing."

"It's never nothing," points out Di and I can't even argue with that. It never _is_ nothing.

With a sigh, I look down at George, who has curled himself into a furry ball by my side, steadfastly ignoring my intermittent stroking.

"So, is it a guy?" Joy repeats Nan's earlier question. I did my best to escape her watchful eyes this week, sticking close to her children whenever we were together, so she's no more clued in than the twins are.

"I… It… It's really nothing," I reply. When Di raises an eyebrow at me, I somewhat reluctantly amend it to "It's not _much_."

"But it's something," encourages Nan. "Don't you want to tell us?"

(God, I _hate_ it when she goes all psychologist on me.)

Pressing my lips together for a moment, I quickly answer, "I met someone, it didn't come to anything, end of story. Happy?"

But, of course they aren't.

"Where did you meet him and why didn't it come to anything?" Joy immediately wants to know.

Careful now, Rilla.

"I met him at… at a party." That should be ambiguous enough. "We got talking and met up again twice more, but I haven't heard from him since. Which is _fine_ , really."

"Doesn't sound like it," Di states, not incorrectly.

"Did anything happen?" asks Joy and smiles when I glare in return.

"Nothing happened," I persist. "Nothing _at all_. We just talked some and that's it."

They all three look slightly dubious, but when I stubbornly tilt my chin forward and refuse to say anything else, they seem to decide to believe me. Which they should. Nothing _did_ happen.

"When did you last hear from him?" enquires Nan, evidently curious.

"Two weeks ago. He had to go back… back to his hometown for a while and there's been nothing but silence ever since," I answer cautiously, absent-mindedly swirling George's tail around a finger until he flicks it away in annoyance.

"Maybe he'll get in touch when he's back?" suggests Joy.

Di scoffs. "This isn't the 1800s. He could call, message, email. Hell, he could even send a carrier pigeon if he felt so inclined!"

Which would certainly be topical, I have to admit that.

"As I said, it's fine," I try, once more, to bring the subject to an end. "I didn't really expect anything to become of it. It was nice talking to him and that's that. He doesn't owe me anything."

"But why _wouldn't_ anything become of it?" wonders Nan.

Yes, why indeed?

It's not like I can tell them the truth. How embarrassing would _that_ be? Admitting that I ever entertained even the slightest hope that the _Prince of Wales_ , most eligible man in, well, _forever,_ might take a liking to little old me. Even I know the thought is absurd. I don't need to hear it said out loud.

"He's… oh, he's what you'd call out of my league," I reply as blithely as I can manage, then quickly look down at George so that I don't have to look at any of them.

For a moment, there's silence and I just _know_ they're exchanging meaningful glances.

"Rilla, sweetie," Joy carefully intones. "You didn't really believe what that awful woman said to you, did you?"

'That awful woman' is the mother of Tristan, my last boyfriend. She's also Seraphina's aunt and, upon inspecting me, found me to be wanting. Certainly not fit for the son of an influential and important family such as hers. She wasn't shy about letting me know about it either. Tristan and I broke up not long afterwards and while I never thought we would go the distance, I can't deny that it did sting.

(Seraphina, thankfully, just cheerfully declared her aunt a madwoman and Tristan a moron and assured me I was better off without either in my life. And she should know, being tied to them both by familial bonds.)

"No-o," I answer, drawing out the word. "I know she was a snob. Still doesn't mean there aren't men out there who are truly out of my league."

I can't really say which of my sisters looks more disapproving.

"You're pretty, funny, caring and reasonably smart," declares Di. ( _Reasonably_ smart? Gee, thanks.) "If he doesn't want you, he's an idiot."

"A big one," nods Nan earnestly.

"And you have no use for idiots," decides Joy. "He's had his chance and wasted it, which is his loss more than yours."

Which… I'm not entirely sure that's true, but it's moments like these when I remember why I love my sisters. They can be utterly annoying, but when it matters, I can count on them to have my back.

"You might have a point there," I admit reluctantly.

"I do," persists Joy.

"She does," agrees Di.

"There are plenty of better men out there," knows Nan.

Joy visibly perks up at this. "What about Robert? Did you ever give him a call?"

Robert. Robert from wherever-he-is-from-again.

"Who's Robert?" asks Di, but both Joy and I ignore her.

"I answered his message. Told him I couldn't see it working out," I tell her.

Joy frowns. "But he's a good man. I'm sure you would like him."

"He's perfectly lovely, and from what I've seen, I do like him. Too much to use him just to prop up my own ego," I explain. Because I have my faults, but knowingly leading others along has never been one of them.

Joy sighs. "You're right. I know you're right. It would have been nice, that's all."

I smile to show her that I know she just has my best interest at heart. Nan is already a step further though.

"Aren't there any other handsome lawyers running around where you work, Joy-Joy?" she asks.

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, Joy answers, "We do have a new colleague who's not too shabby to look at. I don't know if he's unattached, but I could certainly find out."

Di brightens. "Do that. Maybe he's enough to take Rilla's thoughts off that other idiot."

Listening to them trying to pair me off, I can't help but laugh (causing George to open one eye in annoyance at this disturbance). If their goal was to cheer me up, they certainly succeeded.

"I'm good," I assure them, meaning it. "I'm not heartbroken or anything. I never knew him well enough for that. I'm a little blue and yes, a bit disappointed, but that's it. Give it another couple of days and I probably won't even remember his name."

Which might be a _slight_ fib, for obvious reasons, but I do mean the rest of it. Am I disappointed? Yes. Would I have liked for him to call? Yes. Am I going cry myself to sleep over it? Not likely. After all, it was always an absurd thought to begin with. I might be feeling down now, I'm not denying that, but, prince or no prince, it's nothing I won't get over in a few more days. I've had worse disappointments than this and I got over them just fine, so this is nothing I won't get over as well.

And I do.

Or, you know, I _would have_.

I would have gotten over it just fine if he hadn't decided to write just when I thought I was in the clear.

It's a little over three weeks since the party and I'm sitting at Mrs Weisz's kitchen table, listening to her relate the plot of the latest romance novel, when my phone buzzes.

Mrs Weisz breaks off her tale and nods towards my phone. "Don't you want to get that?"

I shake my head. "No, it's fine. I can message back later. Probably just my sister anyway."

"It's impolite to leave someone waiting when they're trying to reach you," Mrs Weisz informs me, her lips pursed in disapproval.

I'm pretty sure Grandmother Marilla would say it's also impolite to check your phone while in a conversation with someone else, but I know better than to try and resist a direct order given by Mrs Weisz. So, I pick up my phone and click to open the message.

 _I'm back. Can I see you?_

Just like that. No explanation, no apology.

Staring down at the message, I suddenly feel utterly helpless.

 _Can_ he see me?

Do I _want_ him to?

Should I _let_ him?

Just when I thought I could relegate the tale of me meeting a prince that one time to the status of an interesting party anecdote, and he decides to message after all. It isn't _fair_!

"Judging from your reaction, I'm assuming it wasn't your sister after all," Mrs Weisz observes knowingly.

Slowly raising my gaze from the phone, I look at her. "No, it's from… from…"

What to call him?

"From a male suitor?" guesses Mrs Weisz.

"From a man," I amend.

She nods briskly. "The one with the motorcycle who came to see you a while back?"

See what I mean about Mrs Weisz making it her business to know all about other people's private lives?

"Yes. Him," I confirm.

"And what troubles you about his message?" wonders Mrs Weisz.

"Nothing, per se," I reply, struggling for words. "It's just that… I mean, I didn't hear a word from him in more than three weeks and… and suddenly, he's asking to see me."

Mrs Weisz makes a thoughtful sound. "That was not very polite of him," she concedes.

It really wasn't, was it?

"I don't know what to answer him," I admit, rubbing a hand across my face.

"I should think it's an easy decision," she replies. "If you want to see him, do it. If not, don't."

I… I'm not sure it works quite that way.

"It's not that easy," I tell her.

"Why not?" is her immediate reply.

"You have to consider the message you project with your answer," I explain. "Can't appear too eager, for one. For another, my sisters would advise me to blow him off altogether. They'd say that he had his chance and wasted it."

Doesn't she know that from her romance novels?

" _Games_!" declares Mrs Weisz, disdain written over her face. "What good is it, playing games?"

"I'm not playing games," I defend myself.

"So?" she asks archly. "What would you call it then?"

It's…

It's…

Sighing, I hang my head.

"It's playing games," I admit quietly.

"Precisely," she nods. "Which never achieved anything but further complicate an already complicated situation."

I nod, eyes lowered to the table.

The sight of me seems to arouse her compassion, for when she speaks again, her voice is kinder. "I know you young women are taught all these rules about how to behave around a man. Believe me, so were we back in the day, though our set of rules looked different from yours. And do you want me to tell you something?"

Raising my gaze to meet hers, I nod slightly.

"Those so-called 'rules' didn't help then, and they don't help now," she answers. "If you like someone, there's no shame in saying so. And if you want to see someone, there's no shame in doing so."

"I… I suppose there isn't," I admit, only a little reluctantly.

"Not at all," declares Mrs Weisz. "Because playing games is a dangerous business. If you're not careful, it's enough to lose you a man you never meant to lose."

There's a wistful little smile on her lips and I wonder if she, too, lost someone she really wanted to keep?

"What would you have me do, then?" I ask.

"Be honest with yourself and act accordingly," she immediately replies, her voice firm and sincere.

I nod slowly, mulling over her words for a moment. "So, you mean…?"

"What I _mean_ is," she states, "that it all comes down to this: Do you _want_ to see him?"

 _Do_ I?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thives' (written by_ _Bob Stone_ _, released by_ _Cher in 1971_ _)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Please don't apologise! I mean, I_ was _slightly on the lookout for your review, but I also totally know how life can be. So while my greedy self is always glad to hear from you, I also understand that writing reviews might not be your_ very _first priority in life - only, you know, second or third ;).  
Glad Dylan and I could be of assistance ;). (But seriously, even discounting '_Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts' _, that man is seriously obsessed with playing cards, isn't he?) Seeing Joan Baez live was a really great experience. It was an open air concert in a beautiful location and not only does she still have an amazing voice, she came across as sooooo nice! So yeah, I was absolutely glad I went to see her, even if those tickets didn't come cheap.  
Well, I guess I must bow to your cousin's logic on that one. Plastic dents don't make for convincing underwear, not even coloured plastic dents. At least it gave poor Ken's Eton classmates even more to have fun with, I guess?  
Now, I hope you have a good and rest_ful _sleep (thanks for reminding me of that one, by the way - I didn't have it on my song list yet, but I got added swiftly) and am looking forward to your thoughts on this chapter and the last one whenever you have the time :).  
_


	8. To remain as friends

_New York City, USA  
November 2010_

 **To remain as friends**

It is not exactly with _apprehension_ that I buzz open the downstairs front door for Ken, it's more of a waiting feeling. Waiting to see what's going to happen.

At first, however, nothing happens at all.

For where I expect to hear his footsteps coming up the stairs not too long after pressing the buzzer, there's just silence. It's only after I've just resolved to close the door again that I hear the faint sound of steps from downstairs, making me pause.

Moment later, Ken appears in the hall. Instead of a motorcycle helmet, he wears a dark woollen hat pulled low over his forehead, and a grey scarf wrapped up to his nose, leaving only his eyes visible. It's a decent enough disguise, though to me, he is unmistakable.

"No motorcycle today?" I ask as I step back into the flat to let him enter.

He, I must give him that, pulls off his boots and places them next to the door before following me inside.

"Riding a motorcycle in that weather? I don't have a death wish," he answers as he winds the scarf free, the door pushed closed behind him.

He has a point. Winter came in his absence and predictably turned New York's streets into veritable minefields of icy patches and slushy puddles.

"Welcome to New York," I reply with a shrug. Because at this time of the year, ice and slush is quite a normal occurrence.

"Isn't it supposed to be on the same latitude as Italy?" he wonders, taking off his hat and frowning in thought.

I just stop myself from shrugging again. "Could be." Because really, what do I care?

His frown deepens. "But then, looking at latitudes, London is more northerly than Newfoundland as well and you wouldn't think that either," he muses.

I make a non-committal sound, causing him to pause in taking off his coat and look at me instead. For a second or two, I hold his gaze, then turn to fuss with the collar of a cardigan thrown over the back of the chair next to me.

"Your neighbour accosted me downstairs," Ken tells me after a moment, his voice measured. "She told me off for not calling you for three weeks."

Mrs Weisz.

I feel my treacherous face heat up.

"Don't mind her," I reply quickly, reaching out to take his coat from him and busying myself with hanging it from a hook at the back of the front door.

When, after a moment, he answers, his voice is thoughtful. "I should though. She isn't wrong."

That gets my attention. Turning, I consider him.

Since I haven't asked him to sit yet, he's still standing next to the kitchenette, absent-mindedly turning his scarf and woollen hat in his hands. "I… I stayed in London longer than I intended to," he finally adds and though that isn't an apology, it could be shaping up to be an explanation, which isn't something to snub at either.

Gesturing for him to take a seat on my make-shift sofa (Mrs Lynde's trusty quilt once more spread over it), I ask, "Was there any particular reason?"

He sits down beside me and sighs deeply. "My mother was… unwell. I had to stay and cover for her."

Something about the way he says 'unwell' makes me wonder if that's just British understatement or something more sinister is at work here, but I also know it's not my place to ask outright. "Is she recovered now?" I enquire instead.

He starts, as if roused from deep thought. "Hm?"

"Your mother. I asked if she is recovered," I repeat. (And it would be a lie to say I'm not burning with curiosity to learn more about all this, but I just about manage to hold my tongue.)

"She is… feeling better." And once more, there's something about the careful way with which he chooses his words that tells me there's more to it than he's telling. "When I left, she was starting to take over some of her duties again and the rest is nothing Father and Aunt Mary can't handle between them, especially if Persis and Teddy pitch in as well."

He's frowning now, his face etched with lines I don't think I ever saw before, and something about the sight of him makes a feeling of sympathy rise within me. Whatever is the matter here, he didn't go AWOL out of sheer carelessness.

And so, because I don't like to see him this despondent, I give him a playful nudge in the side. "What's with your parents and naming their sons for toys anyway?"

Whatever he expected me to say, it obviously wasn't that. Turning, he just stares at me for several seconds and only when I begin to fear that I might have offended him, does he lightly shake his head, smiling almost despite himself.

"In fairness, they are no more responsible for Teddy than they are for Ken," he explains. "He's really named Theodore, for my father's father."

Frowning, I rack my brain for information on Queen Alexandra's husband. I know he's dead, but…

"Died in a car crash when my father was a boy. As did his oldest daughter, my Aunt Margaret. My father was the only one who walked away from it," Ken supplies matter-of-factly.

Well. So much for lightening the mood.

"Your family sure made a habit out of dying young," I observe, wincing the next second as I realise how glib the words sound.

"Oh," Ken smiles wryly, "you have _no_ idea."

So, there are more, are there?

Looking at me, Ken seems to realise that I've run out of things to say, for he circles the conversation back to the beginning. "So, Teddy was named for our grandfather. When he turned eighteen, he was given the same title. Duke of Kendal."

I wrinkle my nose. "Isn't that the teeniest bit creepy?"

At least that gets a laugh out of him. "It really is, isn't it? But I don't think my parents thought of anything but honouring my grandfather. There are several other titles they could have chosen for Teddy, after all. Uncle Al has Hereford and both York and St. Andrews passed out of the immediate family when the descendants of the original holders lost their royal titles along with their proximity to the crown. But there are at least five vacant ducal titles with royal connections they could have picked. Kendal, therefore, was deliberate."

"What about your sister? She's got a special title as well, doesn't she?" I enquire, relieved to have found a relatively safe subject.

"Persis is Princess Royal," Ken answers readily. "The title can only be given to the eldest daughter of the current monarch and is awarded for life. Or – eldest living daughter, I should say. Aunt Mary would have been eligible after her older sister died, but for some reason my grandmother never gave her the title. Thus, when Persis turned eighteen, it was still free to be given to her."

"Persis is also a pretty unusual name," I observe. "In whose honour was she named?"

Ken smiles. "Detected a pattern, did you? But yes, she was named for my mother's grandmother, even though she didn't die until a couple of years after Persis was born."

"What does it mean? Persis?" I wonder, inclining my head slightly.

"Persian woman. Her father – of the original Persis, that is – was an explorer back at the turn of the last century. He was travelling through what was then Persia when his daughter was born and thus named her Persis Susiana, the latter being the name of part of Persia back in ancient times. We still have some of crates of from those expeditions, full of notes and drawings and the odd artefacts."

"He sounds like an interesting man," I remark, though my own interest in dusty old artefacts remains, admittedly, limited.

"He certainly seems to have been driven," Ken agrees. "He caught some exotic illness and died before his time though – there's _that_ pattern again – and left his only daughter in the trusted hands of his old friend and benefactor, the Earl of Holderness."

Anticipating where this is heading, I groan audibly. "Please don't tell me that he married her?"

"Precisely that," nods Ken. "She was twenty and he in his forties. But before you feel too bad for her – she outlived him for almost five decades and, escaping the curse of the early death, saw her great-granddaughter christened with the same unusual name she had."

"Unusual it might be, but there are no toy-related connections attached to it," I point out. "Tell, did your brother's classmates also leave teddy bears lying around for him to find at Eton?"

He looks up, surprised. "Teddy didn't go to Eton. Not to any boarding school, actually," he replies. "I was shuffled off to Cheam at age eight and Eton thereafter, and Persis threatened to shave her head if not allowed to attend Roedean – though her understanding of boarding school was, at the time, mostly informed by Enid Blyton books – but my parents kept Teddy close by in London. He was at Sussex House, followed by Westminster School."

Not that any of those names – save Eton – actually mean anything to me, but then, that's not the important thing in this anyway. More important is how, once again, his posture stiffens as he talks, informing me that not even the schools attended by the royal siblings make for a safe subject.

Seriously. Talking about his family is worse than a game of sodding minesweeper.

At loss as to what else to say, I supply, "St. Clare's."

Ken raises an eyebrow in question.

"St. Clare's. The boarding school in those Enid Blyton books," I elaborate. "One of my sisters went through quite a phase as a child. She even went so far as to try to get my parents to send her to an English boarding school."

"She has that in common with _my_ sister, then," Ken remarks, his body slowly relaxing again. Then – "Tell me about your sisters?"

Which at least has the advantage of not making me feel as if I'm stepping on a metaphorical mine every time I so much as open my mouth.

Getting up from the bed, I quickly take a framed picture from the window sill before sitting back down, cross-legged and facing him.

"Look here," I hold the picture out for him to see. "This is Joy, then Di, then me – obviously – and Nan's last."

He takes a long moment to peruse the four faces smiling up at him. "Are you lined up by age?"

I shake my head. "No. We'd have to move Nan between Joy and Di to get the age line-up correct. She and Di are twins, but Nan was born first. But have another guess."

"Well, it's not height either," Ken determines and that's quite obvious, for to get the organ pipe-visual right, Joy would have to be slotted in between Nan and me.

Lightly drumming my fingers against my knee, I watch him trying to puzzle it out. It takes another second or three, but finally, his face brightens, and he raises his head. "I've got it! It's hair colour, isn't it?"

"Bingo!" I can't help smiling at how pleased he looks with himself, though it wasn't even that hard to puzzle out. In the picture, it's strawberry-blonde Joy next to Di with her flaming-red curls, then me and my much darker, auburn-y hair, providing the bridge from the two brighter redheads to Nan and her "nut-brown tresses" (Mum's words, not mine) at the end of the line.

"Are you close?" asks Ken, looking genuinely curious.

"Definitely," I nod. "I mean, the twins are built-in best friends, whereas Joy spent much of my childhood lugging me around like some kind of life-size doll, so we also split into pairs, but on the whole, we're all close. It's not hard, with a childhood such as ours."

"Tell me about it?" he asks, shuffling to sit more comfortably on Mrs Lynde's quilt.

I take a moment to think before answering, "Well, we all grew up in Halifax because my parents needed to be there for work and Halifax is a lovely place to live in, but my Dad is an Island boy – Prince Edward Island, that is – so we have a home there as well. Whenever school and work and other responsibilities allowed it, Mum and Dad packed us up and drove us out to Ingleside."

"Ingleside?" he queries.

"Our house on the Island," I explain. "It's in this totally quaint little village called Glen St. Mary. You know these places that look like they haven't changed at all in the last century? Glen's like that. They – reluctantly! – allowed in such new-fangled contraptions as refrigerators and washing machines, but only under duress. Shirley regularly gets heart palpations because of the slow internet connection."

"Who's Shirley? Another sister?" Ken asks. When I start giggling in response, his expression turns to one of confusion.

"No," I manage through laughs. "No, Shirley is a brother. One of three."

He blinks, nonplussed. "And _you_ ' _re_ ribbing me over my parents' choice of names? I mean, what are those other two brothers called? Judy and Loretta?"

"Mary-Kate and Ashley," I shoot back. "Obviously."

He rolls his eyes, but I can see the corners of his mouth lift in a smile anyway.

Relenting, I answer more earnestly, "They're Jem and Walter."

"With Jem also being a perfectly good nickname for Jemima," Ken points out, and you know what? I can't even deny that. If Shirley's got a girl's name, Jem's is at least ambiguous.

"True," I concede. "And I'd argue that Walter got the better end of the stick, but…"

"But _Walter_ ," he finishes when I break off, nodding knowingly.

Precisely.

"Now, I can explain away Jem as being short for James or Jeremiah, but how did your other brother end up with a Shirley Temple tribute name?" Ken wonders, raising both eyebrows to almost comical heights.

"It's James," I clarify. "And you'd do well never to mention Shirley Temple in Shirley's presence. Unless you want to tick him off, of course. If so, feel free to discuss her as often as possible. I remember that Jem and Di once made a game out of mentioning at least one Shirley Temple movie a day for an entire summer. Shirley was _so_ mad that he – _what_?"

He's looking at me rather curiously, making me hesitate. He's not angry or annoyed though. More amused, with the slightest of smiles, and something else, something I can't quite put a finger on.

"Nothing. Carry on," he replies, though the smile stays in place.

Still a little confused, I throw him another quick glance, but when he only nods encouragingly, I do, as asked, carry on. "For all that, Shirley Temple doesn't enter into the naming of Shirley. He got my Mum's maiden name for a given name."

"Why's that?" Ken wants to know.

"When he was born, my Mum was very ill," I explain. "So ill that they didn't know whether she'd pull through. I wasn't even three years old, so I have no recollection of those days, but I know how Joy and Jem and even Walter clam up whenever someone so much as mentions that time, so it must have been bad."

"I can imagine," he remarks and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face, briefly but distinctly.

(What's it now, I wonder?)

To distract him, I quickly continue talking. " _Anyway_. Dad named Shirley in honour of Mum, back when he didn't know whether she would live. Since he was a boy, Dad could hardly use Anne – and besides, they already used up that one on Nan – so Shirley was the next best thing. When Mum was better, she tacked on Dad's name for a middle name, but by then, Shirley had already started to stick. At least it's also a boy's name in theory, if not in practice."

"Not even really in theory, I'd say," Ken opinions, his expression clear once more.

"No, probably not even in theory," I agree. For while no-one can argue with the sentiment of Shirley's name, it probably garnered him enough teasing to match Ken and his Barbie dolls at least. (Nan thinks that's part of why he likes to spend so much time in the anonymity of the internet, but Nan is also known to interpret childhood traumata into the way someone eats their sandwich, so I'm taking that with a grain of salt.)

"So, seven children. Quite a lot, isn't it?" Ken asks.

I shrug. "I suppose it is. And I'm not saying a family of that size is without its own set of problems – you always need two cars to get anywhere, for one –, but it also has some advantages. Most importantly, you're never alone and thus, rarely lonely either. I mean, even when you're fighting with one sibling, there are still five others to turn to. More often than not, one of them is willing to see your side of the argument, too."

"Built-in allies," Ken concludes with a nod.

"And built-in opponents," I add with a comical little grimace. "It works both ways."

He laughs. "Very probably. I will bow to your superior expertise on the matter."

I bend my head in a mock-bow. "Too generous of you, kind Sir."

His laughter mellows into a smile and I feel myself returning it without thinking. And for a moment, we both just sit there, his eyes holding mine, and _just_ when I think he might say something –

"Meow."

Turning, I see George sitting at my feet, eyeing me accusingly, something grey and furry between his paws.

Well. I suppose there's nothing to kill the moment like a decapitated mouse.

"I'm sorry," I apologise to Ken. "Let me just take care of this."

"No problem," he assures, sitting back on the sofa/bed. "I didn't even see him before. Has he been inside all along?"

Getting up to move over to the kitchenette, I explain, "No, he probably came in through the bathroom window. It's too high up for him to get out of, but he can just about sneak in from the outside, which is why I sometimes leave it open for him when he's out and I'm home. Saves me from having to get up when he returns. When I'm away, I keep a proper window open for him, so he can come and go as he pleases."

I rip off a wad of paper towels and just want to return to take care of the headless rodent, when I see George patting over to me, mouse between his teeth. He carefully places his offering at my feet and looks up beseechingly. I sigh.

"This is very kind of you, Georgie, but you know I don't like mouse for dinner," I tell him. I _know_ I have no reason to feel bad for not wanting to eat the mouse and yet, I totally do.

George just blinks.

Bending down, I scratch his ears in thanks, causing him to purr appreciatively. "Could you call him over to you?" I ask Ken, craning my neck to look at him. "I don't want him to see me throw out the mouse. He might feel bad."

Ken looks very much like he's fighting laughter, but he just manages to keep himself together, instead nodding solemnly. "Come here, George," he calls out.

George doesn't move, merely pressing his head into my hand, eyes closed in bliss. I stop my scratching, straightening again, earning myself a look of utter betrayal in response.

Over in the other side of the room, Ken loudly clears his throat. "If it would please His Majesty to take himself over to the royal bedstead?" he asks, his posh accent more pronounced than I've ever heard before.

George pauses for a moment, before slowly turning his head to look at Ken. And then, after another second of deliberation, he does indeed walk over to him, ears playing alertly, tail swishing from side to side.

Ken, obviously not having expected his calls to be actually successful, moves his legs in, so that instead of stretched out in front of him, they are now closer to the bedpost. "He isn't going to bite me, is he?" he wants to know, voice wary.

I laugh. "More of a dog person, are you?" (Because really, there are two kinds of people on earth, aren't there?)

"Uh-huh," he confirms, his eyes firmly fixed on George, who has now settled in front of him, considering this new intruder thoughtfully.

"If it helps any, I don't _think_ he's going to bite," I assure as I use the paper towels to pick up what's left of the mouse and move to throw it out of the window. "He didn't last time, did he?"

"He didn't even _look_ at me last time," Ken points out, "and he's certainly looking at me now."

"George makes a point of ignoring anyone he sees for the first time. It takes effort to take note of someone and he can't be expected to exert effort on someone who might never even come back," I explain. "But you _are_ back, so now you obviously have to be assessed."

Closing the window again and disposing off the paper towels, I finally walk back to where the two are sitting, still locked in a staring contest.

"What do you think, Georgie? Can he stay?" I ask, nudging him slightly with my foot as I reach him (and then quickly moving said foot to dodge the swipe he directs at it with his left paw).

George doesn't answer, but when I sit back down on the bed, he quickly jumps up after me, padding over to the head end and swirling himself into a furry blob on the pillow, eyes closed, and nose tucked beneath a paw.

"Oh," I remark in surprise. "He likes you."

Ken blinks. "He… he does?" he asks, disbelief lacing his words.

I nod. "Sure. He's willing to sleep in your presence, isn't he? That's a high honour. Not quite up there with giving you gifts, but it's still early days after all."

"If the 'gifts' consist of dead animals, I might not be so keen on them anyway," Ken replies, but there's a twinkle in his eyes, telling me his joking.

And besides… that's just the opening I have been waiting for, isn't it?

"Speaking of gifts… I might have something for you," I admit, not quite able to look at him.

A pause.

"A gift? For me?" His voice, now, is definitely incredulous. But not in a bad way.

"Well, it's your birthday, isn't it?" I defend myself quickly. "And with you being relatively new here and everyone celebrating Thanksgiving today anyway, I wasn't sure… I mean, I thought… alas, it's not much anyway."

Getting up again – and ignoring his amused remark of "who's looking up whom now?" (in fairness, his Wikipedia page was positively boring, with nothing about what Di would call 'the juicy bits') – I walk back over to the kitchen, open the fridge and carefully take out a platter.

I know he has followed me, so upon turning, I offer it to him. He, however, doesn't move, just stares down at the platter in my hands.

Then –

"You baked me a cake." There's a strange quality to his voice.

I nod nervously. "Uh, yes. I did. Obviously. I mean, it's really not much. Just a baking mix, so nothing to get excited about. I'm no Barefoot Contessa for sure. Baking mix… it's hard to mess up, I mean. Even for me.

His eyes remain fixed on the cake.

"You baked me a _cake_ ," he repeats, incredulous.

And I'm beginning to think that was a bad idea.

"Izzie helped. Izzie is my niece," I point out quickly, though quite what that information is supposed to mean to him, I don't know. Truth is, I'm babbling and I know it. "This is also why there's a slice missing here at the end. Izzie is a right little capitalist – she demands payment for her work, see? I thought you wouldn't mind, but if you do –"

I get no further.

"Are those rainbow sprinkles?" he asks, leaning forward to inspect the cake more closely.

"Uh, yes," I confirm. "They were supposed to form a 26, but I'm afraid Izzie got a little overboard. She claims everything is improved by rainbow sprinkles. She also insisted on double chocolate. I hope you don't… I mean, do you even _like_ chocolate?"

Finally, he raises his head to look at me, a brilliant smile on his face. "I love chocolate," he assures. "Who doesn't?"

Indeed.

I feel myself breathe a sigh of relief, my shoulders relaxing. When he arrived today, I wasn't even sure whether I'd give the cake to him, but once I did, I also wanted him to like it.

"Do you want a slice?" I ask, already placing the cake back on the counter and allowing my hands to busy themselves with getting out a knife to cut it.

Ken's hand, lightly placed on my wrist, makes me freeze.

Feeling shy, I look up at him to find him watching me pensively. "Rilla… we are friends, right?" he asks, his voice very composed, and I have no idea what he's thinking.

"I… yes, sure. We're friends," I quickly agree. "Friends is good. I like that."

But even as I speak, I can feel the way my skin tingles beneath his touch, belying the words.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Restless Farewell' (written by Bob Dylan released by him in 1964)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _I don't know whether I ever specified it, but Rilla attends NYU. I don't think she'd be too interested in an Ivy League college, nor would she go for a women's college, so that counted out both Columbia and Barnard - hence, NYU it was.  
Actually, I don't think Ken _made _the MATH wear a bumblebee costume, he just told them to come dressed up as something. However, that doesn't mean he didn't get a good laugh out of the grumpy bumblebee as well ;). (And you better believe that another of the MATHs was dressed as a sexy Eyeore!)  
Well, of course Ken irritates you. To say that he's acting impolitely is putting it mildly! I mean, he had a sort-of explanation for it, but it's not actually a proper excuse. He behaved like an idiot and that's a problem. Rilla forgave him now, but she won't forgive him forever. It's definitely something he needs to work on.  
I wanted to show the four sisters as being there for each other and propping each other up, so I'm glad that worked. The other three are focusing on Rilla here, but when it's another sister in need of support, she gets it just the same. I'm having fun creating friends for Rilla, but I think that her family will be her most reliable support system, especially going forward and especially considering she will have to lead a life where every new acquaintance must be distrusted on principle.  
Mrs Weisz gives excellent advise! She saw that Rilla cares, just like you did, and she doesn't believe in pretending not to feel something when you actually do. But, as evident in this chapter, she also doesn't believe in not calling for three weeks, so Ken probably got more of a tongue lashing than Rilla did ;)._

 _To MarillaCBlythe:_  
 _Hello and thanks for being in touch! I'm glad you're enjoying this story and I can promise you that Rilla's family will feature plenty over the course of it. In fact, we'll get to meet most of them pretty soon._


	9. Between the moon and New York City

_New York City, USA  
December 2010_

 **Between the moon and New York City**

Mrs Weisz waits for me when I enter the hall, standing in the doorway to her flat and watching me with an obvious twinkle in her eyes.

"Your gentleman caller is already upstairs," she informs me, clearly pleased.

I shake my head, though unable to fight a smile. "He's a friend, Mrs Weisz," I correct. "No 'gentleman caller'. And really, I don't think _anyone_ is a 'gentleman caller' nowadays. The breed became extinct about fifty years ago."

Mrs Weisz doesn't appear convinced. "Call it whatever you like, Marilla, but there's no changing the facts," she lets me know, lightly clucking her tongue at my apparent inability to understand her point.

(Though in truth, I understand her very well. She's wrong, is all.)

"Whatever we want to call him, I probably shouldn't leave him waiting any longer," I point out with a smile, inclining my head slightly.

Her penchant for manners getting the better of her, Mrs Weisz nods approval. "No. Though you shouldn't have left him waiting in the first place," she remarks pointedly.

"Not my fault!" I quickly defend myself. "And besides, I know you would never leave him standing out in the cold, Mrs Weisz."

"Indeed, I would not," she agrees. "He is a very polite young man, after all. Very good manners. Except for how he never removes that scarf from his face. Is something the matter with his face?"

She does her best not to appear too curious and I do my best to suppress a laugh. "His face is perfectly fine," I assure (and it is – in more ways than one). "I think he's just cold. They don't get winters like these in Europe."

"Western Europe," amends Mrs Weisz with a sniff. "Winters in Hungary are not at all warmer than here."

"No, I guess they aren't," I agree amiably, because as far as the Hungarian climate is concerned, she's clearly the expert.

Reaching down to pick up a bag sitting by my feet, I hand it over to her. "I have five novels here. Is that enough to tide you over until after Christmas?" I ask.

Mrs Weisz nods. "Yes, yes. Very good." She is already peering inside the bag to see what I've brought her.

"I'll drop by tomorrow and bring you some of George's cat food," I add. (For George knows that whenever I'm gone, he can instead turn to Mrs Weisz for care.) "If you get me a list ready until then, I can go and fetch you some groceries before I leave for home."

Looking up from her bag, Mrs Weisz considers me, her face having softened in a way it doesn't often happen with her. "You lovely girl. What would I do without you?" she asks with a little sigh.

"It's nothing," I assure quickly. "And besides, you're looking after George while I'm gone, which is much more trouble than doing a bit of shopping."

"No trouble at all," she disagrees with a shake of her head. "And now, off you go. Your gentleman caller is waiting." Her eyes are twinkling as she says it and I can't help but laugh.

"Best go up before he disappears, right?" I query.

Instead of answering, Mrs Weisz just shoos me off with her free hand, her expression one of amusement. When, halfway up the stairs, I look back over my shoulder, I can see her turn back to her flat, nose already poked into the bag I've given her, and am glad that I have two brand-new books waiting upstairs, to be given as her Christmas present. Otherwise, I don't think she'd have enough reading material to last until my return.

Climbing the stairs quickly (but not so quickly as to leave me completely breathless), I reflect on Mrs Weisz's use of the term 'gentleman caller'. Ever since he established us as friends almost a month ago, Ken and I have made good headway at becoming exactly that. Which is still weird if I think about it consciously but doesn't _feel_ weird at all anymore. Instead it's… almost natural.

We only ever meet at my place, with him dropping by about two or three times a week. And it's not even that we're doing much – mostly, we just chat or watch the occasional movie on my laptop. Recently, he's also taken to turning up bearing food, either take-outs (which I'm reasonably certain he made his PPOs get him, but which I've never asked about, because the thought makes me feel uncomfortable and I'd rather not have it confirmed) or else an assortment of groceries (also, no doubt, not procured by him in person), which we then try to whip into an edible meal between the two of us, at which he, surprisingly, is proving to be rather more of a dab hand than me.

In short, it's all perfectly nice and very lovely indeed. He's funny, he's clever, and since I've gotten better at steering clear of difficult subjects, he's also allowed himself to relax a lot. It's a perfectly nice, perfectly lovely friendship and I'd lie if I said I'm not looking forward to seeing him. In fact, I've had to slightly curtail other aspects of my life to make room for him, leading to Nia recently complaining loudly and publicly on my Facebook page about how she never sees me anymore, which Chelsea then emphatically agreed to. Of course, that isn't true at all (I totally see Chelsea in class and regularly meet Nia for lunch in the cafeteria), but that's my friends for you. And besides, the day is only so long, right?

When I reach my landing, I can see Ken leaning against the wall next to my door. He has pulled the scarf free from his face and smiles at me in greeting. "Hello there."

"I'm _so_ sorry for being late," I apologise. "Did you have to wait for very long?"

"Not too long," he assures, sliding his phone into his pocket and pushing off the wall.

Moving to unlock the door, I explain, "I didn't mean to leave you waiting, but Tracy called in sick today and Carolina and I had to split her tables between us, which always makes things a tad stressful."

"Couldn't you have called in someone else instead?" he asks, his voice is curious rather than critical, as he follows me inside, our snow-wet shoes left to dry in the hall.

I shrug off my coat, then kick the door shut with my be-socked foot. "We might have, but then Tracy wouldn't have gotten any tips for the night."

Ken raises a questioning eyebrow. "But if she didn't do any work, she isn't due any tips either, is she?" He reaches for my coat and hangs up both mine and his.

"Maybe not," I reply reluctantly. "But we know all that when Tracy calls in sick, it's because her bastard of a husband has beat her up again. The last thing she needs is to worry about money on top of that. Money is how he keeps her tethered to him. She's trying to save enough to leave, but it's slow going." I glower darkly into the room, hands balled into fists at the thought of Tracy's husband.

"It's often like that," Ken points out carefully. "That apart from everything else, women simply lack the financial means to leave."

I turn to look at him, making a conscious effort to smooth out my expression beforehand. "How do you know that?"

He shrugs. "You tend to pick up some information when sent to visit all those charities. Besides, Aunt Mary made women's rights quite her pet subject. She works with several charities that aim to help women out of abusive relationships."

"I hate how we have to have charities for that," I sigh. "But I suppose it _is_ necessary. Carolina and me splitting our tips with Tracy is helping a little bit, but it's not nearly enough."

"It's a start," Ken replies comfortingly. Then, as he considers me, his expression suddenly turns thoughtful. "Say… if I asked you for a glass of water, would that qualify me as a… a patron or diner or whatever we want to call it?"

Blinking in confusion, I need a moment to understand where he's going with this. When I do, however, I nod slowly. "I should think so. Though we don't charge for tap water."

"But I could still tip you for bringing it to me?" he clarifies.

"There's no-one stopping you," I point out, now fighting a smile.

"In that case, I'd very much like a glass of water," he replies and while his voice remains earnest enough, the corners of his mouth are also threatening to rise upwards.

"Coming up in a second, good sir," I promise in my best waitress's voice and turn to fill up a glass of water for him. When I hand it to him, he is just pocketing his wallet again, and on the kitchen counter lies a neat stack of notes that wasn't there before – at least fifty dollars, by my estimation.

"We never get tips that high," I tell him, though with much regret. "Tracy's not going to buy it. And she's far too proud to accept charity."

Ken just shrugs. "Tell her it was a weird Englishman who had his exchange rates confused. I mean, it totally _is_ ten dollars to a pound, isn't it?"

He is grinning now, evidently quite pleased at his little ploy, and I can't help but relent. He's clearly eager to help and Tracy _does_ need the money, after all.

"Sounds about right," I agree, smiling myself now. Then, quieter, "Thank you."

"Not at all," he replies, suddenly serious, and reaches out to give my hand a squeeze.

He holds the touch for a second or two, before I pull my hand back. "Right. Anyway. Having settled that, would you mind if I leave you to it for a second? This dress is cute to look at, but there's limited room to breathe." It's new and when trying it on in the shop, I might have overestimated the give.

"Go ahead," he nods. "Want me to feed the cat in the meantime?" He nods towards the window through which George, with impeccable timing, is just entering.

"That would be great." I throw him a quick smile in thanks, then collect some clothes from one of the chairs and turn toward the bathroom, closing the window as I pass.

Behind me, I can hear Ken addressing the cat, "Now, what would His Majesty like for dinner?" He opens one of the kitchen cupboards and George is past me in a flash, sparing me not even a look.

Traitor.

After having exchanged the dress for a pair of well-worn jeans and a cosy sweater, my hair released from a bun that was beginning to pull at my scalp anyway, I leave the bathroom to find George happily munching away at his food and Ken standing next to the lone table I have, looking down at something in his hand.

When he hears me, he raises both his head and his hand, revealing that he is holding my iPod. "I was looking at your music," he explains unnecessarily.

"Sure, suit yourself. _Mi casa es su casa_ and all that," I deadpan.

He laughs. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Then, with another look down at the iPod, "You have surprisingly good taste in music."

I raise a challenging eyebrow. "For a girl, you mean?"

"Ah, no," he is quick to deny. "For someone of our generation." A flick of his thumb and a second later, the small loudspeaker connected to the iPod plays the distinct opening of The Who's _My Generation_.

Touché.

Laughing despite myself, I take the iPod from him, set it on shuffle and place it back on the table. "Mighty pleased that my musical preferences meet with your approval, kind sir," I remark, trying out my very poshest accent, as I walk over to plop down on to the bed.

"They certainly do," he agrees with a laugh. Pausing to let George back out of the window – who is, no doubt, in search of more exciting adventures – he follows me, stopping short just in front of the bed. "What happened to the quilt?"

"In the wash," I shrug. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," he assures, sitting down beside me. Then, eyeing me curiously, "Now, do tell – at whose knee did you acquire your taste in music?"

"My dad's, actually," I answer, folding both legs beneath my body to sit more comfortably. "He's a neurosurgeon by day, but deep down, he fancies himself to be a rock star or something. A thwarted one, at the very least. When he was younger, he even played the guitar in a band and everything. Not that they were at all successful, but… well, you know."

Ken nods. "That would be the Woodstock generation, wouldn't it?"

"Smack dab," I confirm. "He was eighteen in 1968 and boy, does he get nostalgic when talking about it. Not that he was at Woodstock personally, but you know… he lived the spirit. Long hair and all. Looked rather ridiculous, if the pictures are anything to go by."

"Your father was a hippie?" Ken asks, evidently highly amused by the thought.

"To a point. I don't think he was much into this whole spiritualty thing though. That was always mum. In her teenage years, she was basically the original flower child. Come to think of it, I think she stuck to the aesthetic long past the point where it stopped being fashionable," I muse.

Across the room, the iPod begins playing the Stone's _Wild Horses_ and Ken makes an appreciative sound. "Ah, _Sticky Fingers_ was one of their best."

"So says Dad," I agree. "Alongside _Exile on Main Street_."

"Your dad wasn't bound to the typical hippie folk sound then, I take it?" he asks, raising both eyebrows.

"Oh, no. Dad always followed the music," I answer with a shrug. "Folk, rock, even shades of punk. He's listened to it all and has the LPs to show for it. They might be the most visual reminder of his and mum's past, actually. I mean, you wouldn't think it from looking at them now, but they _did_ meet at an Anti-Vietnam war rally in 1969."

Ken's mouth twists into a smile that can only be described as wry, as if he's thinking about his own private joke and not sure whether it's actually something to laugh about.

"Tell!" I demand, extending a hand to poke him into the side. (Because let's face it, I was always going to tire of treading eggshells around him.)

He shakes his head slightly. "My father saw action in the Falklands and my mother was just eighteen when she was married off for money to a man whose family had gotten rich by arms deals, amongst other things."

 _Right_.

And just like that, I'm back to balancing on eggshells. Though I supposed I _did_ ask for it, didn't I?

"How come they let your father fight in an actual war anyway? I mean, he was the heir, wasn't he?" Because of all the roads he opened up with that remark, this seems to be the least slippery one.

"It was just the Falklands. I mean, war is war, but this wasn't even close to, say, Vietnam in scale. I think they just decided to take their chances," Ken answers evenly. "And besides, they had a spare, so it wasn't all that risky."

"A spare?" I repeat, puzzled.

"Uncle Al. If my father had died, Uncle Al would have taken his place. Though come to think of it…" he pauses for a moment. "Come to think of it, I entirely agree with you. How anyone could ever think it sensible to risk Uncle Al becoming king is utterly beyond me. Aunt Mary, sure, any day, but Uncle Al… We might just have to chalk that one up to collective madness."

(One day, I will need to find out quite what is the matter with Uncle Al.)

"Why did they take that risk then?" I wonder.

He shrugs. "Truthfully, I think it was my grandmother's attempt at breaking up my parents. Send off my father to war and hope that by the time he returns, my mother will have moved on and he can be convinced to marry someone more suitable."

Over on the table, the iPod, spookily, launches into the Dire Straits and their _Brothers in Arms_.

"Your grandmother, the Queen," I remark slowly. (How odd that sounds.)

"My grandmother, the Queen," he confirms.

"So… she didn't approve of your parents' relationship?" I ask, choosing my words carefully.

He smiles, but once again, there's little humour behind it. "That's one way of putting it, yes."

At a loss what to say to that, I fall silent. He, too, doesn't offer up anything else, instead staring ahead into space, very softly humming the song's tune under his breath.

It is only when Dire Straits come to an end, to be replaced by the Beatles, that Ken turns back towards me, and even he can't help laughing at the song the iPod picked for us - _Revolution_. Apt, indeed.

"Tell me more about your dad and his music?" he suggests, lightly tapping a finger against my knee.

"It's his great passion. Mum has her writing and Dad has his music. Though while Mum always had a child sitting at her feet, joining into her literary interests, none of my elder siblings took much of an interest in Dad and his music," I explain. "Which wasn't for lack of trying on his part, believe me."

"Poor man," commiserates Ken, looking genuinely mournful on Dad's behalf.

"Perhaps," I concede. "Though for me, it provided an opening I wasn't about to let slip through my fingers. I must have been about eight when I realised that so far, no-one had taken in interest in Dad's music, so I decided _I_ was going to do it."

Ken looks slightly puzzled. "What do you mean, you _decided_ to be interested in it?"

"What I said," I reply, matter-of-fact. "When you have five older siblings running around the place and a preemie brother born after you, you learn early that you have to fight for attention. I mean, my parents tried their best, but seven children and two parents were never going to add up, not even when you throw Grandma Bertha into the mix. Thus, if you wanted special bonding time with a parent, it was best to find a way to initiate it."

Understanding slowly dawns on his face. "And so, you decided to like music."

I nod briskly. "Precisely that. Dad was delighted to have someone share in his interest and I was happy to have something that only the two of us shared. Happy enough to spend many an hour listening to his records with him and even allowing him to teach me the guitar. Though I wasn't the most diligent pupil around, I'll readily admit that."

"And did all those hours manage to invoke in you a real interest in music or did you just play pretend?" he asks curiously.

Making a thoughtful sound, I consider the question for a moment. Over on the table, the unmistakeable Janis Joplin has started on _Piece of my Heart_.

"Depends on what you consider 'a real interest in music'. I like music well enough. I know _lots_ about it. I can tell good music from bad music. I enjoy listening to it – to the good music, that is. I happily escaped the dark years that were the '90s and their complete lapse in musical taste," I answer, wrinkling my nose slightly. "To that extent, yes, I am truly interested in it. But do I actually care whether Brian Jones was a superior guitar player to Keith Richards? I do not. Certainly not enough to discuss it in depth for an hour or two, though I have, by osmosis, acquired the necessary knowledge to hold my own in such a discussion."

"I'd pick Richards over Jones, actually. Though admittedly, Richards also had much more time to make an impression on the world. Jones died too young," Ken states earnestly. "But whichever you prefer, neither of them can hold a candle to –"

"Hendrix!" I interrupt, laughing. "God, you're predictable!"

He looks slightly put out. "That Jimi Hendrix was the best guitar player among them all doesn't make me predictable. It's just a fact," he points out. "As is the fact that he, too, died to young."

"So did Jim Morrison. And Janis," I add with a nod towards the loudspeaker on the table. "The original 27 Club."

"Indeed," he nods gravely.

"And I'm not even disagreeing with you on Hendrix's skill as a guitarist. I can acknowledge that perfectly well without caring much for his overall sound. Same goes for Santana, actually," I state, raising a challenging eyebrow and suppressing a smile. I have a feeling he's going to take this just as well as Dad would – which is to say, not well at all.

He does, as expected, look suitably aghast. "Blasphemy," he mutters, evidently having been robbed of something more eloquent to say.

I can't help laugh at the sight of him, earning myself a dark glare. "You're entirely in agreement with Dad on that one," I inform him. "He, too, never understood my aversion to some of his great favourites. I also have little time for Bob Marley, which never fails to puzzle him."

"It _is_ puzzling," Ken insists, very seriously.

This time, I only just manage to swallow my laugh. "Go on like that and Dad's going to want to adopt you."

At this, his lips rise into a smile as well. "Tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to decline. For a variety of reasons."

"British establishment won't like you getting adopted by a random Canadian," I agree with a very understanding nod.

"Yes. That and… other reasons," he replies mysteriously.

Briefly, I consider needling him on those reasons, but then decide it would really be far too much effort. Besides, I have no particular interest in opening another can of worms when we've just managed to get a firm lid on the last one.

Overcome by a yawn, I turn my head into my shoulder for a moment to cover it. When I look back at him, he's smiling slightly. "Tired?"

"A bit," I admit, returning his smile lazily.

Janis, meanwhile, has given way to Joan Baez, and as I listen to her croon her _Love Song to a Stranger_ , I idly reflect that the lines ' _All of your history has little to do with your face; You're mainly a mystery_ ' might as well have been written about the man sitting next to me. He's a mystery alright.

Lulled by Joan's voice, we fall into silence, but it has little resemblance to the charged, uneasy silence of earlier. Instead, there's something relaxed, almost peaceful about it. Perhaps that's why, as Joan sings ' _To know that when day broke and I woke that you'd still be there_ ', the words are halfway out of my mouth before my woozy brain has caught up with them.

"Tell me, are you the kind to stay the night?"

He turns and it is only upon seeing the surprised look on his face that I truly realise what I just asked.

Well, drat.

But thankfully, confusion merely gives way to amusement as he answers, "Contrary to popular believe, I'm not as much of a womanizer as the tabloids likes to make me out to be."

"So, you're telling me you never sneaked out of a woman's room in the early hours of dawn?" I challenge, biting back a smile.

He laughs. "I'm saying I don't make a habit of it."

"But you aren't utterly unfamiliar with the situation either?" I persist, now unable to fight my own smile.

"Let's say that, once or twice after a long night, I found myself waking up next to a woman I might not have accompanied home if stone-cold sober," he answers carefully, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"Oh!" I exclaim. "Coyote Ugly, you mean."

He blinks. "Coyote _what_ , now?"

"Coyote Ugly," I repeat with a laugh. "See, there was a movie by that name, oh, ten years ago or so. No Citizen Kane, but endlessly fascinating to an eleven-year-old girl such as me. From what I gather, the idea for it came from a real-life bar over in Manhattan's East Village. And the phrase, Coyote Ugly, means waking up with your arm beneath a person you find so repulsive that you'd rather gnaw the arm off than wake them."

"Compelling," he acknowledges, dead-pan.

"Fitting, too," I add innocently.

His eyes find mine and there's a sly smile spreading over his face that I don't much like the look of. "Speaking from experience, are we, Miss Blythe?"

Hiding my face in my hands, I still can't help laughing. "That was. _One_. _Time_. Alright? Just the once."

"'Course it was," he replies, clearly teasing.

When I lower my hands again, he has leaned slightly forward, his face now closer to mine, laughter etched in every line. Reaching up to brush some hair from my face, he lets the strand run through his fingers slowly.

"Would waking up next to me also make you want to gnaw your arm off, I wonder?" he asks and in an instant, the air around us feel strangely charged, crackling with something I can't name but don't really _need_ a name for either.

Across the room, the iPod begins playing the Moody Blues' _Nights in White Satin_. Because _of course_ it does.

I could laugh and change the subject. I could pretend indignation and ask him to leave. I could brush it off and tell him that he's just going to have to keep on wondering. I could make a joke out of it and say that I'd be perfectly willing to sacrifice not only an arm but a leg as well.

I could do all that.

Instead, I shift very slightly towards him, tilt my chin upwards and look him straight in the eye.

"Why don't you find out?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)' (written by Christopher Cross, Burt Bacharach, Carole Bayer Sager and Peter Allen, released by Christopher Cross in 1981)._


	10. Just like an old-time movie

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
December 2010_

 **Just like an old-time movie**

To say that my mother _likes_ Christmas would be doing her a grave injustice. Indeed, _love_ would be a far more accurate term.

She is known to jump at any and every opportunity to gather her family and throw a good party, but Christmas is the season she adores most especially. That's not to say she won't happily chew some unfortunate person's ear off about the commercialisation of Christmas and what a right travesty it is, but such concerns aside, it's the one time of that year that brings out the best in her. Having been blessed with seven children and two decades of time, she is also by now in possession of more than enough home-made Christmas decorations to last her a lifetime, thus happily circumventing any reliance on commercially sold articles.

When Dan pulls up the rental car in front of Ingleside, we are therefore greeted by Mum's customary decorating, with the trees surrounding the house dressed up in fairy lights and colourful wooden baubles. The house itself is lit up brightly, shining out into the approaching dusk, reminding me once again why, of all the places I've called home so far, Ingleside has always been _Home_.

We pile out of the car, Izzie expertly slipping through her father's grasp and racing up the steps to the veranda, right into Mum's waiting arms.

" _There's_ my favourite granddaughter!" Mum exclaims, smothering Izzie in kisses and causing the girl to giggle uncontrollably.

"She never lets _me_ do that," Joy mutters drily, meaning her daughter and being right on all accounts. Kisses, as far as Izzie is concerned, are icky and only to be allowed sparingly – unless you're Mum of course, in which cases all rules are off.

On the veranda, Mum has hoisted Izzie onto her hip, stretching out her free arm towards Jake. "And my favourite grandson!"

"I'm your only grandson, Granny," Jake points out earnestly, but lets himself be engulfed in a hug anyway.

"Only because my children are all regrettably lazy in providing me with more grandchildren," remarks Mum, glancing pointedly towards Joy and me.

"Hey!" Joy protests immediately. "No looking at me, please. I'm the only one who did her dues, after all."

I nod. "And you wouldn't _really_ want me to pop out a baby next summer with no daddy to show for it, would you?"

"Every baby has a daddy," corrects Izzie with a giggle. "Silly Rilla."

The blessed child.

"Technically speaking," murmurs Joy, but quiet enough so her daughter doesn't hear.

Stifling a laugh, I advise Mum, "Why don't you go and pester Nan instead? I'd put money on her being the next one to procreate."

"I do think Nan and Jerry want to get married first, so that might be a while," Mum declares with an air of regret, before shrugging it off by offering a hand for Jake to take. Turning, she leads him inside the house, Izzie still perched on her hip.

"Well, I suppose that's me in my place then," remarks Joy drily, raising both eyebrows comically.

"You were married when you had Jake," I remind her, though truthfully, her point doesn't fully escape me.

She shrugs. "Barely. I was huge at the wedding."

Which… yeah, she was.

Glancing over her shoulder at Dan, who is busy unloading the car, Joy asks, "Do you need any help, darling?"

Dan's head resurfaces from the depth of the car boot. "That would be nice," he confirms with a smile.

Joy nods briskly. "We'll be sure to send you a brother or two for assistance." This, while linking arms with me and pulling me towards the house, leaving me barely enough time for an apologetic shrug in Dan's direction.

To her credit, she has barely entered the house before grabbing the arm of a passing Jem – showing admirable reflexes, no doubt honed by years of running after Izzie – and announcing, "Brother dear! I have missed you, I love you and I am very glad to see you. Now do be a sweetheart and go help Dan with our luggage, will you?"

Jem turns with a grin. " _Please_?" he supplies pointedly.

Joy just inclines her head and raises an impatient eyebrow, causing Jem to look at me instead.

I raise both hands in defence. "Oh, no. I'm staying out of this."

"Isn't it your luggage as well?" asks Jem slyly.

In reply, I wave my hands around vaguely. " _My_ luggage, _your_ luggage. So _complicated_. Isn't the concept of individual possessions an outdated one anyway?" I ask breezily, tossing my head slightly.

"I don't know. You might want to ask Walt about how communism worked out for the Russians," Jem suggests and wiggles his eyebrows, making me laugh.

Thus satisfied (for by laughing first, I marked myself as the loser in our exchange – it's a bit like a blinking contest), Jem turns towards Joy again. "And speaking of outdated, don't modern women make a point of carrying their own luggage in this day and age?"

"They might. But luckily, I am only ever as modern as it suits me to be at any given point," Joy declares loftily. "Now, off you go." This accompanied by a shooing motion of her hand.

Now laughing himself, Jem tips his temple in a mock-salute, before slipping past us and out the door, towards a waiting Dan.

Watching him leave as she takes off her coat, Joy gives an exaggerated sigh. "I used to have him better-trained," she remarks. "Faith must have been lax with him."

"I heard that," comes the bright voice of Faith Meredith, right before the woman herself floats out of the kitchen to bestow a kiss upon each of us.

"And I ask you to please ignore it," I interject quickly from the depth of my own coat, before Joy can start doling out tips on how to keep our brother suitably domesticated.

"Already forgotten," agrees Faith cheerfully and smiles one of her dazzling smiles. (Faith is so blinding a person that she makes you want to squint. It's good that she's also _nice_ , for otherwise, I'm sure I'd find reasons to detest her. On principle.)

"Aren't you staying for dinner?" I ask as Faith takes her coat from the rack I just hung mine from. I know that she and Jem came with Mum and Dad from Halifax a few days ago, but that Faith is staying with her own family over at the Manse.

Faith shakes her head. "No, I just popped over to bring you some of Rosemary's dessert. She cooked up a storm today. She always does when Cecilia comes to visit. God knows why. It's not like Cecilia actually cares."

I might wager a guess as to the _why_ of that, actually. For Faith, Cecilia is primarily her mother (though none of her children actually call her that), but she is also… a lot. In every possible sense. And if cooking calms Rosemary, I can definitely see why she turns to cooking every time she has to host her predecessor.

A quick glance at Joy tells me that she, too, is swallowing a reply. Seconds later, we're thankfully saved by Jem and Dan bustling in from the cold, both of them laden with luggage. Jem immediately proceeds to drop everything at Joy's feet, staying bend down with his hands on the suitcase handles and muttering darkly about women and too many clothes.

Faith, laughing brightly at this, merely leans down to drop a kiss on Jem's red curls, before declaring, "That's my cue. See you tomorrow, everyone!" A cheerful wave and she exists through the door that Dan is holding open for her with a foot.

He is doing a rather sorry job of keeping himself and his load balanced upright with only one leg to stand on, so I quickly reach out to take the door from him, closing it behind Faith's retreating form.

Dan takes the opportunity to nudge Jem with the bag he's holding. "Come on. Let's take these upstairs."

Jem casts a less than enthused look in Joy's general direction (which she summarily ignores), but does straighten again, hoisting up the suitcases as he does. "If I throw out my back over your luggage, I'm invoicing you for all health-related costs, Joy-Joy," he informs her.

Joy grins. "Oh, I'd like to see you _try_ ," she challenges. "You'd need to prove that it was the singular event of luggage carrying that hurt your back and I'm fairly certain I could shed reasonable doubt on that."

For a moment, Jem seems to mull this over, but when a questioning glance at Dan only garners him nodded confirmation of this legal obstacle, he accepts it with a harrumphing sound and starts stomping up the stairs without further discussion. Dan follows him, shaking his head in amusement, and Joy looks after them both with a pleased little smile.

(He should have known better anyway. It's not like any of us ever won an argument against Joy, once she made up her mind to be victorious.)

"See? Five minutes with me and he's already back to being a good boy," Joy announces with great satisfaction.

"If only your daughter would listen to you half as well." My voice is an innocent sing-song, but that was never going to fool my sister. (Nor was it meant to.)

And indeed, Joy's head whips around with admirable speed. "Quiet on the peanut gallery, if you please!" she demands. Then, brushing of my impetuous comment with typical briskness, "Now, let's see who else is around to say hello to."

"You might start with your old dad," comes the amused suggestion from behind us, causing us to turn as one.

"Dad!" exclaims Joy, her face immediately brightening.

"Hello Daddy," I add, beaming at him.

He extends both arms, one for each of us to step into, and holds us close for a long moment. For while Mum truly starts to shine whenever she has her family around her, there's a quiet sort of satisfaction within Dad as well that is equally heartfelt.

"I was just saying to Rilla that Jem is lacking in proper manners," Joy informs Dad with a mischievous smile as she takes a step back again. "You really ought to have taught him better."

"Ah, but that's why we had you first. To keep all your younger siblings in line," Dad replies without missing a beat, his eyes twinkling at her.

Joy purses her lips. "Oh, har har. Very funny, Dad," she answers sarcastically.

"Who says I was joking?" asks Dad, winking at me and giving my shoulder a squeeze when I laugh.

It's pretty funny, to see Joy's face change as her mind works to come up with a killing reply. She's so used to being wittier than everyone around here that she tends to forget that, compared to Mum and Dad, she is but a novice.

Obviously giving the conversation with Dad up as a battle lost, she turns to me for easier prey. "Be that was it may," she remarks (which is just about the most passive-aggressive thing to say, isn't it?), "it really is quite useful to have a man around the house to do the lugging, Rilla. That Tristan of yours was a wimp, but you might consider getting yourself an improved model instead."

We-ell…

I am saved from replying by Dad laughing loudly. "Even if we have failed in teaching our sons proper manners, we obviously succeeded in installing in our daughters every possible feminist virtue," he points out.

Joy narrows her eyes at him slightly. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"At least it's not something that was ever in question," decrees Walter, coming in from the kitchen and munching on a cookie. "And it extended to us boys as well, didn't it? I still remember holding a presentation on Edith Archibald back when I was ten or so, and no-one in my class knowing who she was."

"Which reveals a worrying lack of education on their part," remarks Joy with a click of her tongue.

Dad turns his head very slightly and gives me a conspiratorial smile, making me laugh.

"Oh, come off your high horse, will you, Joy?" I chastise my sister. "You can hardly fault a bunch of ten-year-olds for not knowing every feminist icon under the sun."

Joy looks like she does very much fault Walter's old classmates for this black hole in their childhood knowledge but is prevented from arguing her point further by her son barrelling into the hall from wherever he had disappeared to earlier.

To have Jake barrel anywhere with such speed is an unusual occurrence in itself, thus reliably reclaiming Joy's attention. Usually, it's far more likely to be Izzie doing the grand entrances.

Jake skids to a halt in front of his mother, looking up at her beseechingly. "Mum, can I have a puppy?"

Before Joy has a chance to answer (though, given her nonplussed expression, I'm not sure she had an answer at the ready anyway), an excited puppy comes following Jake, yapping loudly as it squirrels around everyone's legs, leaping up to surprising heights intermittently.

Joy's expression turns slightly alarmed. "You didn't…" she chokes out, looking at Dad with slightly crazed eyes.

"Not to worry," interjects Walter while calmly finishing off the last bite of his cookie. "He's Jem's."

It's almost possible to physically grasp the relief radiating from Joy's form.

"But he's so sweet, Mum," argues Jake. "Isn't he so sweet?" He has kneeled down next to the puppy and put an arm around it, trying to make it look up at Joy, though this is complicated by the fact that the dog obviously much rather wants to wash Jake's face with a very rosy and very wet tongue.

"He is… certainly almost canine-looking," Joy answers carefully, causing Walter to snort with laughter and Dad to chuckle quietly. I, too, can't help laughing at the aptness of her words.

The puppy is, admittedly, cute in the way almost all juvenile beings are (save for human babies, that is – those just mostly tend to be strangely hairless), but it is otherwise a unique looking dog. It's of no discernible breed, that is for certain. Its base colour seems to be yellow, with random black dots all over, one of them sitting rather unbecomingly on of its brown eyes, out of which he is now looking up at Joy with a look beseechingly enough to rival Jake's.

"Where did Jem get him anyway?" I direct the question at Walter, but the answer comes from Jem himself, currently descending the stairs after having obviously relieved himself of our luggage.

"Faith found him," he explains. "He was out in the snow, all wet and shivering. She took him home with a view to bring him to an animal shelter the next day but…"

But not a chance in hell. Clearly.

"You always did want a dog," Walter remarks amiably.

Beside me, Dad groans softly as he undoubtedly remembers the many discussions he had with a boy Jem over his wish for a dog. My parents – probably rightfully – argued that with an already chaotic household such as ours, it would hardly do to add a dog, but that never prevented Jem from trying to change their minds. He once memorably went three days without speaking to either of them, though not even that helped in furthering his cause.

Truly, how Faith could ever think there was any chance of her handing the dog over to a shelter after it spent a night next to (or maybe inside) Jem's bed is quite beyond me. Though, knowing her and knowing him, she probably never _really_ expected him to relinquish it.

"What's it called?" I ask with a nod towards the puppy, which has wriggled free from Jake's grasp and has ambled over to Jem, making a rather sorry-looking attempt at climbing up his leg.

"We haven't really figured out a name yet," Jem answers, picking up the puppy and immediately getting his own face washed for his effort.

(Feeling my slight shudder at the sight, Dad squeezes my shoulder in solidarity.)

"But he needs a name, Uncle Jem!" protests Jake while he is being pulled to his feet by his mother, who looks by all accounts as if she'd prefer the puppy subject to be dropped as quickly as possible.

I, though, feel I can't really argue with Jake's logic. Think of the puppy what you will, but if it's staying (and it very much looks like it will) it does, clearly, need a name.

"What have you been calling it then?" I enquire of Jem.

Jem frowns. "Oh, well. We mostly just call him Dog, really."

"But that's not a proper name for it. Seriously, _Jem_!" I argue, shaking my head in disbelief.

"It _is_ a dog though," Jem points out.

"Arguably," mutters Joy under her breath, causing both Walter and Dad to grin.

"Still," I persist, "we're not going around and calling you Human either, are we?"

Jake perks up at this. "We might call Uncle Jem homo sapiens sapiens," he adds helpfully. "And the puppy would be canis lupus familiaris."

"For one, Jakey, that's not a proper name for a dog either," I inform him earnestly, "and for another, I do think Uncle Jem would be much more aptly called an ape. Help me out – what are those big orange ones called?"

Jake stares at me, obviously both slightly scandalised and utterly amazed at what I just said. But when the three men all start laughing – Jem, to his credit, laughing loudest of them all – he, too, allows himself to be overcome by giggles. Even Joy, though she obviously can't decide whether to see the funny side or be disapproving of me corrupting her son's manners, has trouble fighting a smile.

"I do think you mean an orang-utan, Rilla," Dad finally answers my question, still chuckling to himself.

"They're also called pongos," Jake adds eagerly.

Walter makes a thoughtful sound. "Might be a name for the puppy?" he suggests.

But Joy shakes her head. "It may be many things – and I'm still not wholly convinced it is really a dog – but I think we can rule out 'great ape' as a possible species," she decides firmly and nods towards the puppy, which is currently trying to clamber onto Jem's shoulders.

"True," concedes Walter. "Any other suggestions?"

"Rilla?" asks Dad and turns his head to look down at me. "You insisted it be named, I think?"

But I haven't even so much as opened my mouth when Jem already protests. "I don't _think_ so! If Rilla names him, he will just end up with some silly prince's name."

Within a fraction of a second, I feel myself going cold. How could he _possibl_ y – ?

But Jem isn't finished yet. "I mean, what's that cat of yours called? King Something-Or-Another?" he asks, raising both eyebrows sceptically.

I, however, feel the breath coming back to my lungs. For a moment there I really thought… but no matter.

"He is called George, which is a perfectly serviceable name, thank you very much," I inform Jem haughtily, though my heart is still beating at twice its normal speed.

Dad, who still has an arm comfortably around my shoulders, looks at me questionably, but luckily, my siblings don't give him much of a chance to enquire what's the matter with me.

"Alright, then we'll do it this way," Walter remarks firmly. "When did Faith find him?"

Jem blinks in confusion, but answers anyway. "The sixth, I think."

Walter nods. "Which was a…?"

"Monday!" Jake pipes up immediately.

"Monday it is then," decides Walter.

Jem blinks again. "For a _name_?" he asks, clearly unconvinced.

"Like in Robinson Crusoe, Uncle Jem. Like Friday, only Monday," explains Jake helpfully, though that he sees the need for an explanation at all is only because he wasn't around during Jem's boyhood. No-one loved a good adventure story quite like Jem did – except, maybe, Jake himself.

"I like it," Dad remarks thoughtfully. Then, calling out quietly, "Monday!"

The puppy raises its head from where it has rested against Jem's neck, pricks up its ear and yaps in answer.

"I guess that settles that, then," Joy points out drily, though there's a small smile playing on her lips as well.

"Monday!" calls out Jake, to the same effect as Dad. Even more, the puppy starts squirming, demanding to be set down again. When Jem does so, dog Monday immediately skitters over to Jake, who beams happily.

"Come on, Monday! Race you!" he exclaims, causing the puppy to leap up excitedly. Moments later, both have sprinted from the hall, disappearing further into the house, until only the puppy's faint yapping can be heard.

We all look after them for a moment, before Joy sighs, her eyes seeking out Jem's. "If he's going to spend the rest of this vacation badgering me for his own puppy, I will kill you," she informs him politely.

"But isn't that illegal?" asks Jem with a smirk.

"It might count as self-defence," I counter earnestly.

Joy smiles in my direction. "Thank you. Yes, I do think the right jury would see why I had to do it," she argues.

"I would acquit you," agrees Dad kindly, causing Joy's smile to widen and Jem to splutter in indignation.

"Very kind of you, Dad," Joy acknowledges, looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "Now, what about you, Rilla? Walter?"

I shrug. "Sure. I'm going to sit with Dad on that one."

"Good girl," Joy smiles. Then, raising her eyebrows at Walter, "Walt?"

"Ah, well…" he rummages. "It might be a tad drastic?"

Making a disapproving sound at such traitorous thoughts, Joy quickly waves a hand to silence him. "No matter. Where is everyone else?"

"Are you taking a _vote_ on whether you get to kill me?" asks an incredulous Jem, just as Dad answers, "Your sisters won't arrive until tomorrow. Shirley should be upstairs."

"Probably hacking the CIA," mutters Walter.

Dad shifts uneasily beside me. "He wouldn't really attempt to hack the CIA," he protests. A beat, then, quieter, " _Would_ he?"

All five of us exchange glances, no-one quite ready to definitely assert that no, he wouldn't.

Finally, Joy clears her throat. "Right," she remarks, her expression still slightly doubtfully. "Be that as it may… Does anyone know where the other half of _my_ family ran off to?"

"Dan wanted to start on unpacking all that stuff you brought," replies Jem meaningfully, rubbing his shoulder to emphasise his point.

"And Izzie is with Mum in the kitchen, sampling Christmas cookies," knows Walter.

Uh-uh.

And, indeed – with an anguished groan, Joy throws her head back, staring at the ceiling as if hoping for some support from up on high.

" _You_!" she then exclaims with a finger pointed at Jem, her expression leaving little doubt that she's past letting the family vote on his violent demise. "First, _you_ make my son want a puppy. And now Mum goes and gives Izzie –," she breaks off with a shudder, grappling for words, "gives her – gives her – _sugar_!"

And even as Joy wails and Dad smiles indulgently and both Jem and Walter laugh with little apparent mercy, I can't help a secret little smile. For no matter how surreal my life might otherwise be at the moment – I can always count on life in Ingleside to remain forever unchanged.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'If You Could Read My Mind' (written by Gordon Lightfoot, released by him in 1970)._

* * *

 _A/N: My lovely beta-reader specifically asked me to inform you that she is to blame for all remaining mistakes in this chapter. She was drunk on champagne when reading it. (Living the good life, apparently.)_

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _School's important, no argument there! Here's hoping matriculation works out well for you and they give you a moment to breathe once in a while. Tell me when it's D-Day, so I can cross my fingers for you, yes? :)  
If, however, you should ever find yourself with one or two minutes of free time after reading a new chapter, do spare the tiniest thought for me, yes? Reviews are the only currency us writers are dealing with on this site, after all, and yours are always most welcome, even if truncated in length by time constraints. (Which is not to say that I don't really enjoy reading your long reviews. I totally do! I just mean to say that I prefer shorter ones over not hearing anything from you at all.)  
I love that you picked up on the bit with Tracy, because I don't think very many people did. In fairness, it's pushed aside a bit by things happening afterwards, but I like to think it tells you rather a bit about both Ken and Rilla. A somewhat important bit, actually.  
Ha, you and me both!_ _My Dad's about ten years too young for Woodstock as well, but he had older brothers to influence him and, in turn, passed that influence on. I could sing you_ Yellow Submarine _, start to finish, long before knowing what a submarine even was. (And I still don't know the text to our national anthem. Just bits and pieces.)  
You might be pleased to hear that Anne and Gilbert's first encounter, even in this universe, involves some head whacking. More on this in two chapters' time. And yes, the royal family is fundamentally dysfunctional. That's half the fun in writing them, see? As for Aunt _Mary, _she's the sensible one in the family who keeps things together, but I wouldn't exactly call her 'normal'. Ken doesn't notice, because he's up on par with her in rank, but Aunt Mary is_ very _aware that she's a princess of the realm. She takes great care that other people are aware of this as well._  
 _Oh, no worries, Gilbert likes Joni Mitchell's music plenty. So does Rilla. Ken might lean more towards rock and a little less towards folk though (Rilla is the other way 'round). And 'Love Song to a Stranger' is a very confusing situation indeed. I_ think _the one I quoted is the first part, but I wouldn't bet money on it._  
 _That iPod is prescient, of course. (I mean, "You're talking about the Falkland War? Have yourself a little 'Brothers in Arms'.") That's why it handed them 'Nights in White Satins' at just the right moment. And I'm glad that Rilla being a bit bold and making her move felt realistic and in character for her. I mean, I_ finally _had to get them moving, right?_


	11. Speaking words of wisdom

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
December 2010_

 **Speaking words of wisdom**

The curious thing about winter on the Island is that, while snow in New York or Halifax always tends to me more of a nuisance than anything else, I never much mind it when on PEI. Maybe it's because I am only ever here on holiday and never actively have to _be_ anywhere at a specific time, or maybe it's just because the island landscape looks that much more enchanting when under a cover of snow. Regardless, I'm always up for a stroll through the snow when in the Glen, never mind how much I curse the winter when in the city.

Thus, as we all walk back from church in a loose procession, I lightly kick up some snow with my be-booted feet, absent-mindedly noting how prettily it glints in the winter sun.

Letting my gaze drift, I see Grandma Bertha who, having collected Walter to her right side and Di to her left, is talking a mile a minute, her hands moving as swiftly as her mouth is. Grandmother Marilla, on the other hand, walks on Dan's arm, both of them speaking much more quietly. (She's fond of Dan, Grandmother Marilla is. Almost fond enough to forgive him for putting Joy in the family way before putting a ring on her finger. _Almost_.) Further on, Mum is walking between the current and former Mrs Reverend Meredith, with the actual Reverend having stayed behind at the church for a while longer after the service.

From behind, an arm is looped through mine and as I turn my head, I look directly into the smiling face of one Carl Meredith.

"We didn't get a chance to talk yet," he states, not incorrectly. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine," I assure, because really, what else is there to say? "It's a lovely day, after all. And your father's sermon was very nice as well."

Immediately, Carl places a dramatic hand over his heart. "Have we really been reduced to this? Talking about the weather and my father's sermon? You wound me, Rilla!"

He does, at the very least, draw a genuine laugh from me. "You're right," I concede. "I apologise most profusely."

"Accepted," he nods. "I _think_. Now, tell me something else."

"How about _you_ tell _me_ something instead?" I suggest, raising both eyebrows. "You're the one traipsing all over the country, remember?"

Almost involuntarily, my gaze is drawn forwards, to where Nan and Jerry walk, arm-in-arm, next to a hand-holding Jem and Faith, all of them laughing at some amusing tale Jem is telling. Further along, I spy Una's dark head, as she's locked in conversation with Joy, no doubt over some weighty topic or another. They share a passion for saving the world, those two.

And while Carl might also happily sign up to saving the world, if in a different way, he is otherwise the odd one out in his family. Jerry, of course, does his finance thing and Faith is some months into her three-year residency training as a family doctor (arguing, quite rightly, that she prefers her patients to be awake and talking rather than chloroformed and cut up). Una did an undergraduate degree in something called 'Social Work and Women's Studies' over in Windsor (the Ontarian Windsor, though the name alone sends a little shiver through me) before moving to Vancouver for her Master of Divinity, which she should complete come next summer at around what will only be her twenty-fifth birthday. Carl's older siblings, therefore, are no less ambitious than mine are, which effectively singles him out as the unique one.

"I've actually been pretty settled these past months," he now relates. "I've found this amazing place out west where they try out different ways of organic farming. It's a great environment and I'm learning so much."

"Are you?" I ask, my voice sounding more interested than my mind actually is. I love Carl, but organic farming bores me to tears.

Funnily, Carl himself never much cared for farming until some years ago. When he came back from his world travels, he had made up his mind not to go to university but didn't really know what else he wanted to do. To make some money, he started doing odd jobs on a farm and somehow, stuck to it. That he then turned to organic farming was just consequential. Carl has never been able to stand seeing another being suffer even the slightest hardship.

"We've been experimenting with letting the hens live out on pasture, just like in the old days," he continues. "The trick is to give them as much freedom as possible without exposing them to the elements. I mean, we can't very well let them out in snow like this, and they're very put out at being stuck in the stable, but in summer, it's a lot of fun for them."

"Uh-huh," I respond, hoping it will count as encouraging. For while I find his enthusiasm for the well-being of hens to be endearing, it also baffles me a bit. I mean, they're _hens_ , aren't they? It's not like they're real animals.

Rubbing my hands together for warmth, I let my gaze drift, only listening with half an ear to Carl and his continued tales about pasture-living hens. A bit to our right, Shirley is walking with Grandpa John, both deep in conversation. Grandpa used to work as an engineer in Charlottetown back in the day and he takes some professional interest in what Shirley gets up to with his computer. (Grandmother Marilla, meanwhile, was a secretary at the same company before they married, and you better believe she ruled that office with an iron fist! Not that I was there to witness it, of course, but Grandpa John tells the most hilarious tales of her glaring even the top boss into submission.)

Shirley, feeling my eyes on him, looks up and pulls a comical little grimace in my direction. Smiling, I tip my head to him, before letting my gaze move on, Carl's voice mixing with the sound of the snow crunching beneath our feet. Up at the front of the group, I can see Dad apparently assisting Izzie and Lily – really called _Fire Lily_ and the Merediths' six-year-old half-sister on their mother's side – in a snowball fight against the duo of Jake and Bruce. The boys don't see each other often but, being only about a month apart in age and compatible in temperament, make quite fast friends.

With a firm movement, Carl shoves his elbow into my side, making me start and almost lose my footing on the frozen ground.

"You're not listening!" he accuses (quite rightly, too).

"And you're going to make me break a leg," I shoot back immediately.

"Which I would have no need to do if you had been listening in the first place," he points out and allows himself a self-satisfied smirk.

"But _Carl_ ," I whine, giving him my most pleading look. "They're _birds_. Birds are boring."

"Far from it!" he immediately counters, his expression brightening. "Just yesterday, I saw some loons out near the lighthouse. Most interesting, loons are. Excellent swimmers and decent fliers, but their legs are so oddly positioned that they need lots of space to get off from the ground. They also –"

But the rest of what he wanted to say is muffled by me slinging an arm around his neck and pulling his face into my shoulder, thus successfully cutting off his words.

" _Birds_ , Carl!" I insist, laughing. "Spare me, please!"

He wriggles free from my grasp, a grin stretched across his face and his hair now tousled above a cold-reddened nose. "Fine," he relents, "no more birds. What else do you want to talk about then?"

I shrug elaborately. "I don't know. Tell me something not about birds maybe?"

Tapping his nose, he seems to consider that question for a moment. "Well, if you must know, there's another reason why I stayed on at that farm, and it's actually got fairly little to do with birds. I kind of – Oi, watch out!"

With quick reflexes, he pulls me out of the firing line of a wayward snowball. Turning my head, I see Jake raise a hand in apology. "Sorry, Aunt Rilla," he calls over, just as Dad lobs a particularly large snowball at his back.

Thus, decreeing my honour successfully defended, I look back at Carl. "You were saying?"

"I was saying, that I… well, I kind of… I mean, I might have…" he rummages in reply, his hands fidgeting slightly.

Laughing, I reach out to ruffle his hair even further. "Come on, spit it out. It's just me, remember?"

Carl smiles, though it looks a little stiff. When he finally does answer, the words come in one rush. "I kind of met someone."

"But that's great, Carl!" I beam at him. "What's her name?"

"Kara. She's… she's really great. Very clever. And she gets a lot of this, even better than I do. Listening to her, I really realised how much our nature is exploited by the corporate bigshots. It's totally eye-opening," he explains, his voice rising in enthusiasm with each word.

"That's lovely," I smile, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Because as bewildering as _I_ think it is, if they want to do their sweet-talking by decrying capitalism, who am I to judge them? To each their own, and all that.

"It really is," Carl agrees with a wide smile. "And she also likes birds."

The last of which, clearly, is a friendly jibe at me, making me laugh. "All the better, then," I decide. "If she can stand your bird-talk, more's the power to her. _I_ would have suffocated you with a plucked chicken long ago, but then, we all know that."

Because Carl and I might have worked as a couple back as teenagers, but the older we get, the more convinced I am it was very wise of us to revert back to friendship when real life knocked on the door.

"And I'm sure glad I escaped that fate," Carl agrees amiably. (Meaning, I hope, the act of being suffocated with a plucked chicken, rather than a relationship with me. We're better off as friends, but I am allowed a bit of vanity, am I not?)

Bumping slightly into me, Carl wiggles his eyebrows. "What about you? Any news on the love front?"

Oh, I only slept with the future King of England. No biggie. Now, tell me more about those hens of yours?

Not that I actually _say_ that. Indeed, the mere thought of speaking it out loud makes a slightly hysterical laugh bubble up inside me. I only just manage to force it down again, but my face must have betrayed me, for Carl looks at me a little strangely. "Rilla?" he asks, knitting his brows into a frown.

I attempt my most unconcerned smile. "Oh, nothing. You know how it is. I have been dating, but there hasn't really been anyone since Tristan. Not long-term, I mean."

And even as I say it, I hate how true it is.

Carl nods understandingly. "He of the ridiculous name."

Even through my gloom, I can't help but smile at this. "Believe it or not, but he got off lightly, all things considered. He has a sister named Yseult – because of course he does – and his younger twin brothers are called Castor and Pollux."

"Sounds vaguely familiar," Carl remarks, cocking his head to the side and looking to me for a more concrete explanation.

I answer with a shrug, because really – I neither know nor care, particularly. "Greek mythology, I think. But if you want anything more definite, I'm going to have to point you to Walter. The Greeks aren't his beloved Russians, but he gave them some attention back in the day."

"I'll pass," Carl decides. (Smart cookie.) Then, frowning, "Though it shows once again that having money makes people become weird. I mean –"

But thankfully, I'm spared a lecture on the character-destroying effect of money by a large snowball being thrown against Carl's back. (Because seriously, I never got all this vilifying of money on principle. I wouldn't much mind being rich, thanks a lot.) Turning, both Carl and I see little Lily standing a few steps away from us, eyes twinkling beneath her bangs and a gap-toothed grin on her face.

"Hey, you little monster!" Carl cries in mock-indignation. "Did you just attack me? Intolerable! Just you wait!"

With a delighted shriek, Lily sets off into the other direction, Carl hot on her heels. He makes a little show of struggling to reach her, but when he does, he engulfs her in a bear hug and starts tickling her, in the manner of all big brothers, anywhere, ever.

Thus deserted, I draw closer to Shirley and Grandpa John, still faintly smiling at Carl and Lily's antics.

Grandpa smiles at me in greeting, though without interrupting whatever he is telling Shirley. "…NASA didn't call it the most successful manned flight for nothing! It was considered very successful on account of…"

"Which mission is he at?" I ask Shirley under my breath, even as Grandpa speaks on.

"Apollo 15," he mutters back.

Only two more to go, then. Provided we reach Ingleside before he can launch into the Space Shuttle program.

Grandpa John, as one must understand, might have been a grown man when the NASA undertook their manned space program, but it still didn't fail to utterly fascinate him. I have no doubt that 'becoming an astronaut' would have been his greatest childhood wish, had 'becoming an astronaut' meant anything to anyone when Grandpa John was a child. As it stands, _not_ becoming an astronaut remains one of the not so secret regrets of his life.

Some well-gauged questions by Shirley ensure that when Ingleside comes into view, Grandpa is still stuck on Apollo 17, thus bringing the topic to a natural halt before he can get any further into the American space program. (Or, God forbid, start on the Russians.) He's nothing if not thorough, Grandpa is.

Once inside the house and individually greeted by an excited puppy, we're all herded into the living-room for the King's annual Christmas speech. Having dreaded the moment for some days now (because it's just _weird_ , alright?), I stop at the door and try to come up with an excuse or another, when Di beats me to it.

" _Really_?" she asks, a picture of scepticism. "We're _still_ doing this?"

But she evidently hasn't reckoned with Grandmother Marilla. Turning to give Di a _look_ , she coolly informs her, "It is tradition, Diana, and you will show some proper respect for our monarch." Says it and sweeps past both of us into the room.

"I don't see what's there to respect. It's an outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society," mutters Di rebelliously, though so quiet that Grandmother doesn't hear.

I make a non-committal sound (the words sound vaguely familiar, without me being able to place them), mentally gauging the distance to the stairs and trying to decide how good my chances are at slipping away undetected. Di, noticing this, has other ideas though.

"Oh, no, you don't! If I'm subjected to this, then so are you!" she declares, grabbing my shoulder and dragging me inside the room. There are no more spaces to sit, so both Di and I line up at the back wall, making me feel a momentary flutter of relief at being able to lurk in the background.

But because the universe apparently hates me, the actual speech is preceded by a report on the royal family's arrival at their own Christmas service, up in some quaint little church near their castle in Scotland.

First, the camera zooms in on the King, looking very much like himself, and smiling kindly at the people who came to wish him and his family a Merry Christmas. On his arm is the Queen, whose beauty is in no way diminished by my parents' slightly outdated TV set, though her smile looks much more studied and far less approachable than that of her husband.

"Very Jackie O," Di mutters beside me, indicating the Queen's deliciously purple coat and matching pillbox hat. (And, I mean, I'm glad she can appreciate this for the fashion, at least.)

Following their parents are the two younger children, as golden-headed as their mother, but in a much livelier mood. "The Duke of Kendal and The Princess Royal," drones a disembodied voice from the TV.

"She's pretty, granted, but her mother's dress sense clearly passed her by," Di murmurs, meaning Princess Persis, and even if my jittery nerves had allowed me to form a coherent sentence in the princess's defence, I probably wouldn't have come up with a good one anyway. Whatever the… the _thing_ on her head is correctly called, the only accurate description for it is _wacky_.

The camera moves on from the cheerfully waving royal siblings to pan over a collection of people that look vaguely familiar without being famous enough to be instantly recognisable on their own. There's a portly middle-aged man with a much younger woman next to him, both trailed by a shy-looking girl not much older than Fire Lily (but hopefully with a more traditional name). Next, a slightly pinched, very regal woman walks in the midst of four men looking so alike that the apparent father in this situation is only identifiable by his receding hairline.

And then, there he is.

"The Prince of Wales, accompanied by Prince Christopher and Princess Katherine of Hereford," announces the droning narrator.

He looks… different somehow. Still _Ken_ , of course, but somehow… somehow, it's hard to believe that this is the same man who sat on Mrs Lynde's quilt, eating mac 'n' cheese and making fun of some God-awful C movie playing on my laptop. Not to speak of… other things.

"Nice coat," Di remarks appreciatively, and it takes me a moment to realise that she's not speaking of Princess Katherine (whose marine coat is as inoffensive as it's unremarkable) but of Ken. And she's right, too. Even his _coat_ is different, looking both more expensive and better fitted than anything I've seen him wear since that fateful UN reception.

TV Ken is working the crowds lined up on both sides of the path, shaking hands and greeting people, his smile striking the perfect balance between approachable and too familiar. He looks calm, assured, utterly in control of what is really a very odd situation. He looks like he belongs there.

This, I realise with a jolt, is his life. Has always been his life. A life in which I and my crummy apartment have no apparent part.

Abruptly, I push away from the wall.

Di looks up. "Rilla?" she asks, surprise turning to confusion as she sees my face.

"I'm going upstairs," I murmur. "I'm… not feeling well."

I can't stand any more of this.

Slipping from the room as quietly as possible, I make my way up the stairs and into my small gable room. Once there, I let myself fall down on the bed and stare at the ceiling, as if there is any chance of the solution to my predicament appearing as if written by magic hand.

But the ceiling remains resolutely white.

Minutes pass with me lying motionless and trying to calm my confused mind, until the rising commotion downstairs tells me that the King has apparently finished his message. And I know I should go downstairs if I don't want someone to come looking for me soon, but I can't even seem to gather the will to get out of bed.

Which is why, as predicted, it doesn't take long for there to be a soft knock on my door.

"Yes?" I call out, trying to sound less reluctant than I feel.

When the door opens, it's Mum sticking her head in and I feel slightly relieved. If I have to deal with anyone at all, Mum's still one of my top choices.

"May I apply for asylum?" she asks with a smile.

I crane my head to better look at her without moving too much. "What are you fleeing from?"

"Very many opinionated people in my house," answers Mum, making a funny face. "Just now, Walter is moderating a staring contest between Joy and Marilla to decide who gets supreme control of the kitchen. _My_ kitchen."

Which is certainly very brave of him.

"Asylum granted," I decide and roll myself on my stomach to make some space for her on the bed.

Softly closing the door behind her, Mum comes to sit beside me, stretching out a hand to rub my back soothingly.

"Does this grant of asylum also allow me to ask questions?" she queries.

I make a hmpf-ing sound, before clarifying, "Depends on the questions."

"It's just one, actually," Mum replies. "Do you want to tell me what's the matter with you? Your father and I are a little worried."

Of all the questions she could possibly have asked…

But her hand feels comforting on my back and her very voice calms me and she's so very _Mum_ , that I feel my resistance slipping away. Maybe I've been keeping this inside of me for too long anyway.

A moment passes as I collect my thoughts.

When I speak, I don't quite look at her. "I've met a man. I like him. I have no idea whether he likes me back."

Mum hums thoughtfully. "No idea at all?" she asks.

"Well… I thought he did. Now, I'm not so sure," I admit reluctantly.

"What makes you feel unsure about it?" she wonders.

What, indeed?

"I… we… we met back in October, and initially, we were just friends. And it was… nice, being friends with him. We were good friends." (Listening to myself, I'm not even sure, who I'm trying to convince. Mum, or myself.)

"But you didn't stop at being friends," Mum deduces.

With a groan, I drop my head to hide my face in the pillow. Mum laughs quietly.

"No. We slept together, the night before I came here," I admit, my voice muffled against the pillow.

"Was it good?" Mum asks curiously. "I remember when your father and I –"

" _Mum_!" I screech, shooting upright and glaring at her.

Mum laughs brightly. "Don't be so prudish, sweetheart."

Why is everyone always calling me a prude?

"I'm not prudish," I protest. "I just prefer to be comfortable in the belief that all of us were brought by the stork."

"Not prudish at all," smiles Mum and reaches out to pat my cheek. I dodge the touch, making her smile widen.

"Storks notwithstanding, if you spent the night together, I should think that there's not much doubt about him liking you back," Mum points out reasonably, thankfully dropping the topic of what she and Dad get up to at night.

"It's complicated," I persist stubbornly, letting myself flop backwards, so that I'm back to facing the ceiling again.

Even in face of my mulishness, however, Mum keeps her cool. It's admirable, really. She rarely ever gets impatient with one of us, even though otherwise, no-one would ever accuse Mum of lacking temper. (Back when she met Dad at that rally, he called her 'Carrots' and she memorably proceeded to hit him over the head with her "End Violence" sign. After which he pointed out to her that she was hardly practicing what she preached, making her laugh. And that's basically my parents in a nutshell.)

"I'm afraid you're going to have to explain that to me, sweetheart," she remarks calmly, reaching out to take one of my hands between both of hers.

Sighing, I turn my head to look at her. "Some weeks back, he asked me whether we were friends. And I said yes. So, I don't know how this… well, the night we spent together, fits. Was it just a one-time thing and we'll go back to being friends after Christmas? Is this some kind of 'friends with benefits'-situation? Or did it destroy everything and I'm never going to see him again?"

"Or did you simply go from being friends to being something more?" Mum suggests gently.

I grimace slightly. Because let's face it – how unlikely is _that_?

Apparently deciding on a different approach, Mum changes tactics. "Have you thought of asking him?"

At this, I actually laugh. "Like that's easy!"

"It doesn't seem very complicated to me. Or do you have no way to reach him?" Mum asks, arching up one eyebrow.

"No, I can reach him alright," I answer with a sigh. "It's just that… he's not the most talkative person, long-distance."

He hasn't gone on total radio silence like the last time he went back to England, but if I was hoping for calls good morning and texts good night, my expectations were quickly dashed. He answered my texts about whether he landed safely and whether he had a good journey up to Scotland and he did wish me a Merry Christmas today, but that's about it. There's preciously little in his correspondence to squash the ambiguity of all this.

Mum makes a thoughtful sound. "Alright, then let's try this: How did he say goodbye to you when he left?" She pauses, eyes me for a moment. "He _did_ say goodbye to you, didn't he?"

"He did," I assure quickly.

It's true, too. He kept his promise of being there in the morning and I never even came close to wanting to chew my arm off. In that sense, our shared night might be considered a success.

"But?" prompts Mum.

"No _but_ ," I answer slowly as I pull myself into a sitting position, replaying our farewell in my head. "It was… I mean, it was nice. Pretty clear-cut, too, or so I thought in the moment. He… he kissed me goodbye –" (And what a kiss it was!) "– and smiled and said I'd better not kiss anybody else until he comes back."

I can still remember his playful smile when he said it, and the fluttering feeling in my stomach. It didn't seem so complicated then.

"What did you answer?" Mum asks, a smile playing on her lips.

"Told him not to go kissing other people either," I reply with a shrug. "I mean, equality and all that, right?"

"Quite," agrees Mum. She seems to mull it over for a moment before deciding, "Not kissing others sounds a lot like exclusivity in my book, you know."

Groaning, I let myself fall backwards again. "It's not that easy!"

"But why not?" Mum persists, looking genuinely confused. "What makes it be not easy?"

And there it is. The moment of truth.

Taking a deep breath, I let go of it slowly before finally answering. "He's… somewhat well-known."

"Well-known," repeats Mum, her voice carefully devoid of emotion.

"Famous," I amend reluctantly. "Very, very famous. Aggressively famous. 'The entire world knows his name'-kind of famous."

Now Mum's the one taking a deep breath. "Very few people are that famous."

"He is," I reply quietly.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and I know the truth is already dawning on her.

When she opens her eyes again, her voice is carefully measured. "I'm fully aware that my next question will sound somewhat crazy. I'm only asking it because Joy told me about that reception you went to with Dan in October, and because you left the room so quickly before the King's message, but… Rilla, the man we're talking about here, is he…?"

"Yes," I answer, my voice suddenly sounding very small.

"Is he a certain… _prince_?" Her voice catches at the last word and I can't blame her.

At this, I can only nod.

For a moment, neither of us even moves. And then Mum does something so very _Mum_ that all my jumbled feelings finally turn into a lump in my throat. Because there are so many ways she could react and not all of them would be welcome, but instead, she just wordlessly gathers me up in her arms and holds me very close and rubs my back, and it's only when she does it that I realise how much I needed this.

For a long while, we just sit there, me in her arms, not making a sound. When she does speak, her voice is little more than a whisper next to my ear. "I still think that saving kisses means exclusivity, even for a prince."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Let It Be' (written by Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1970)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Ah, sorry to hear the site gave you such trouble. But thanks for persisting anyway! (If it happens again, you might try copying your text into a word document or similar before hitting 'send'. That way, if the site eats your text, you have a backup.)_  
 _I'm very glad you enjoyed this chapter and my attempt at writing a family gathering. I figured they would be a loving but chaotic bunch - never a dull moment with those Blythes!_  
 _Actually, I didn't deliberately reference anything with Jake and Izzie's names, but now that you mention it... I pledge here and now that if I give Joy a third child (haven't decided yet), it'll be an Edward. How does that sound? ;_  
 _I, too, wish you a Happy New Year and all the best for 2019 and thank you for your continued support of my stories! :)_


	12. When we were kids, when we were young

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
January 2011_

 **When we were kids, when we were young**

When I knock on the door to Shirley's room, there's no answer, not that I expect one. If I am right, he's rendered deaf to the outside world by a pair of outsized headphones and some highly questionable music (if we can even call it that).

Thus, I just let myself in and do, indeed, find Shirley sitting in front of his computer, his headphones making his head look strangely out of proportion. When he notices me entering the room, he raises a hand to ask for a moment, does some clicks on his computer and finally takes the headphones off. Before he cuts the sound, some shreds of rap music float over, making me wince.

"You want anything specific?" Shirley asks, swivelling around in his chair to face me.

"Do I need a specific reason to want to spend some quality time with my little brother before I head back to New York tomorrow?" I ask in a sing-song voice, making a point to smile extra pleasantly.

Shirley looks like he does very much think people need a specific reason to disturb him, but after a second of consideration, gives a long-suffering sigh. "Okay. Right. Bonding time. Shoot."

Ignoring his apparent sarcasm, I cast my eyes around the room in search for a place to sit. It looks… exactly like you'd expect the room of teenaged boy to look. Which is to say, less than tidy. How he managed to create such a mess in the short time we've been here is actually quite admirable.

Shirley doesn't miss my appraising glance. "Yes, this is what my room looks like. Either you deal with it or I'm afraid our bonding time is over," he informs me.

Not too many options, then.

Seeing as Shirley is occupying the only chair in the room, the most obvious place to sit would be the bed, but that, too, looks a right mess, and, teenage boys being teenage boys, is not a risk I want to take. Under Shirley's increasingly annoyed gaze, I therefore push some clothes aside with a foot and plop myself down on the floor, sitting cross-legged and looking up at him.

"Has Nan been in here recently?" I enquire with an innocent smile.

Shirley nods. "She came to fetch me for lunch the other day. I think it caused her physical pain to stop herself from tidying up." This, with one corner of his mouth rising reluctantly.

"Now _that_ I can imagine," I state, grinning to myself as I picture our sister being confronted with this mess.

"Good on you. Now, what did you want to talk about?" His mouth, I see, is back in even position.

"Oh," I make a vague gesture with one hand, "Nothing in particular."

"Well, you came here. So, you get to talk," Shirley decides. As he speaks, his gaze is sneaking over to his computer, clearly hoping I will say my bit and be gone.

But stubbornness isn't a prominent trait in this family for nothing.

"Hacked the CIA yet?" I ask innocently.

This, at least, gets his attention.

"What?"

"I asked whether you hacked the CIA yet," I repeat, biting back a grin at his expression.

He frowns. "What makes you think that?"

"Dad is worried you might attempt it," I explain with a shrug.

Shirley's frown deepens, but he says nothing in response.

"Have you?" I press.

He half-shrugs. "Not recently."

Not…?

Right.

"Well, Dad will be mighty pleased to hear that," I remark cheerfully, causing Shirley to throw an annoyed glance my way.

Fairly unconcerned by this, I let my gaze drift through the room once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Shirley swivel his chair from side to side, clearly impatient with me, but don't let myself be hurried.

"I didn't know you had taken an interest in biology," I finally remark blithely and smile up at him.

Shirley blinks. "Come again?"

"Your biology project over there," I explain, nodding towards one corner of the room.

Looking to where I indicated, Shirley rolls his eyes when he realises what I mean. "Har, har," he makes, his voice faintly dripping with sarcasm.

"You mean you _aren't_ trying to culture cells in here?" I ask, feigning surprise. "I was _fairly_ sure I just saw that spoon move."

"Ate a clown for breakfast, did you?" Shirley shoots back.

I shake my head. "God forbid, no! Can't stand clowns. Haven't ever since Jem made me watch _It_ when I was nine. I had nightmares for months!"

"That was… mean," Shirley concedes reluctantly.

"Classic Jem." I shrug. "But I went prattling to Joy, who told Dad, who grounded him for a fortnight, making him miss that concert he had saved for. So… there's a lesson there for sure."

"Don't make your younger sibling watch horror movies?" Shirley dead-pans.

"Something like that," I agree vaguely.

In fairness, I think Jem did feel bad about it afterwards. I was expressively forbidden from telling it to anyone (presumably because it would have hurt his oh so manly reputation to have people know about it), but he allowed me to sleep in his bed for weeks afterwards. _And_ he threatened to punch that awful little Jayden for making fun of me being scared of a clown costume the next Halloween, so there's that.

Putting the topic of Jem and clowns to one side, I turn my attention back to Shirley. "If you're not _currently_ hacking the CIA, what are you doing on that computer of yours?"

Shirley's face immediately turns suspicious. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'm just making small talk, Shirl. It's nice. You should try it sometime," I answer patiently, not quite succeeding in suppressing a smile.

In addition to suspicious, Shirley now also looks decidedly sceptical. "Sounds more like a waste of time," he mutters.

I take a deep breath. Dear God, give me patience.

"It's how we bond with fellow human beings. Living, breathing ones, I mean. The kind that have faces instead of avatars," I explain, using my hands to emphasise my point.

"The people I talk to on the net also have faces in real life," Shirley argues.

"You _think_ ," I amend, drawing an involuntary snort of laughter from him.

Now, this is better.

"So, what secret business _are_ you undertaking, all shut up here in your room?" I ask, making sure to keep my voice light and encouraging.

Shirley eyes me from above. "Why the sudden interest? It's not like people usually ask."

"Maybe they would ask more if you weren't in the habit of biting their heads off over it?" I suggest innocently.

He grimaces slightly but doesn't protest my point. After a moment, he even deigns to answer the question. "I'm programming."

"Good." I nod, because this is progress at least. "Programming what, exactly?"

"Not nosy at all, are we?" Shirley murmurs under his breath. But when I just smile at him, he turns to his computer and waves for me to join him. Clambering up from the floor, I walk to stand behind him at his desk.

While clicking with rapid speed, he explains, if still somewhat reluctantly, "I've been trying to decide where to go for college these past months –"

"So, you do plan to go study?" I interrupt. Because as far as family consensus goes, no-one is quite sure whether Shirley is planning to head to university, nor whether he is actively working towards making it happen.

He gives an impatient nod in answer, without even bothering to look at me. "It's such a drag though, finding the right college," he then continues. "You have to look at endless pages not only of the colleges themselves but finding out info on the places they're in and everything. And don't get me started on the actual process of applying. It's… ugh."

"True," I agree. It's criminal how much time goes into finding the right college and subject and everything.

"So, I got bored with it all and thought about how to make it easier," Shirley adds. Some more clicks, and a page opens on his screen that looks somewhat like a search engine of sorts.

"I've been working on a program that does the work for you. Not just 'which subject can be studied at which college', but all the other stuff, too. See here? You can define all kind of search criteria, if you want to." His cursor flies over the screen, making it hard for my eyes to follow.

Putting a hand on the back of his chair for stability, I lean forward a little to get a better look. And truly, there are a lot of criteria that can be set, some of which I never would have thought of myself. There's distance from home town, number of students, number of inhabitants in town, type of student accommodation, scholarships and grants offered… I even spy a criterion that says, 'minimum number of pizza places in a five mile-radius', making me smile.

"The program does all the annoying work for you. It pulls the information from various sources and amalgamates them. So, if you're looking to study, I don't know, law at a university in a mid-size town no more than 100 miles from your hometown, the program will give you all your possible options" Shirley explains.

And we were suspecting him of either doing illegal hacking or possible playing an endless succession of computer games!

"This is great, Shirl! Really impressive stuff. And useful!" I mean it, too.

"It's still in early stages though," he immediately amends. "Far too many glitches even for beta testing. But I'm getting there, I think."

"I'm sure you will," I nod, smiling at him from the side. Then, reaching out to ruffle his hair, "I'm proud of you, little brother."

Immediately, he pulls away and glares at me in warning. Patting his hair down with a hand, he turns back to his computer, frowning at the screen.

He never was any good with compliments.

Clicking wildly, Shirley makes the previous page disappear, instead opening a window full of what looks like code. "I've got something else programmed that should be ready for testing," he informs me, nodding at the gibberish on his screen and throwing me a quick look.

"What is it?" I enquire, genuinely curious.

"You're aware of how Dad is always going on about something happening to one of his precious daughters in all those big cities they've decamped to?" Shirley asks, turning his head slightly to raise both eyebrows at me.

I nod. "Hard to miss." It's sweet how concerned Dad is for our well-being, but he's also being a bit of a worrywart.

"I programmed an app for that. For when you're walking home alone at night," Shirley continues. "Want to know how it works?"

"Sure," I agree, peering at the screen again before giving it up as a bad job. It's all just nonsense to me anyway.

Shirley clears his throat slightly. "Know how in prisons, they give you these little alarm devices that are secured to your body?"

I can't say that I do, no.

Seeing my obviously clueless face, Shirley elaborates, "They not only go off when you press a button but also when they're ripped away from you. So, the emergency call is sent out even when you're in a dangerous situation that doesn't leave you with enough time to actively press the button."

Nodding slowly, I look between him and the code on the screen. I can't say I'm following, exactly.

"I adapted that idea to my app," Shirley adds. "See, you load the app on your phone, obviously. When it's activated, you have to keep the home button pressed. If you do that, nothing happens. If you let go of the home button without switching off the app, it'll send out a call for help to a pre-set phone number, with your GPS whereabouts attached to it. Ideally, it would directly call emergency services, but for now, it's got to be someone else who will then call proper emergency services _for_ you. You know, all old-fashioned." He grimaces slightly at this.

"That's actually quite clever," I remark slowly.

Shirley does a mock bow. "Glad it meets Her Majesty's approval."

And immediately, my heart is in my throat.

But he's only joking, I remind myself. He doesn't know. He _can't_ know. He's only joking.

As I calm my breathing, Shirley continues talking. Come to think of it, he's already talked a surprising amount in the past half an hour. For him, anyway.

"You want to test the app?" he offers.

Swallowing heavily, I nod. "Sure, if you want me to."

He nods, all business-like. "If you give me your phone, I can rig you up. Won't take long."

No.

No way I'm giving him my phone.

Seeing my reluctance, Shirley raises an eyebrow. "Or does that phone hold secrets you're unwilling to share?"

You have no idea, little brother…

"I do like my privacy, thank you very much," I declare haughtily. "Which you, of all people, should understand."

"True," he concedes. "If you're set on being stubborn about it, I can send you a download link instead. Tomorrow maybe, or the day after that. If you have trouble setting the app up, just call me and I'll walk you through it."

That sounds more like it.

"Who'll be my contact?" I ask

Shirley points to himself. "For now, me. I'm working on a feature that allows you to set your own contacts, but we can test that later."

Nodding, I'm just about to ask what _else_ he programmed, all alone in his bedroom, but I never get that far. Instead, the door is thrown open, revealing a thickly-swaddled winter monster that only reveals itself to be Jem at second glance.

"There you are!" he declares. "Come out! You don't want to spend the entire day holed up inside, do you?"

"I'll have you know that I was already over at Miranda's for breakfast this morning," I immediately point out to him.

Jem blinks beneath his bobble cap. "Miranda who?"

"My friend Miranda. Miranda Pryor," I answer, feeling slightly annoyed. On account of our families being so intertwined and with him being a mere nine months older than me, Carl was always my most natural friend in Glen, but he was never the only one. Over the years, Miranda was over at Ingleside far too often for Jem not to remember her at all.

"Oh. Her." Jem shrugs, obviously less than interested in Miranda. "Still, you should come outside with us. You, too, Shirl."

Exchanging a long-suffering glance with Shirley, we obviously both come to the silent conclusion that it's just easier to go along with whatever scheme Jem has concocted. He's not known to go away easily when denied.

Under Jem's watchful and slightly impatient eye, Shirley switches off his computer and we traipse downstairs, where we proceed to bundle ourselves up in coats and scarves and woollen hats. Whatever Jem has planned, it's unlikely to be over soon.

Ever moving, Jem is out the door, before Shirley and I are even fully dressed. Seizing the moment, I quickly lay a hand on Shirley's arm and stop him from following.

He turns, looks at me questionably.

"Say, Shirl… I know you're not currently attempting to hack the CIA, but could you, theoretically, hack a government agency of sorts?" I ask haltingly.

He blinks. "US government, you mean?"

I wave a vague hand. "US, Canadian…" A beat. "Or… British?"

"Hm…" he frowns in thought. "I suppose, with the right tools and enough time, I could have a decent stab at it. Why are you asking?" His expression, now, is veering between curiosity and scepticism.

I force a laugh. It's half-way convincing. "Nothing specific. Just wondering."

Thankfully, out of everyone in the family, Shirley has always been the least one to pry. Instead of pressing the matter, he just shrugs it off and turns towards the door again. I hurry to follow, putting on my woollen hat as I walk.

Outside on the lawn, Jem has gathered not only our family but the Merediths as well. Everyone is tightly swaddled in warm clothes, though some manage to look more enthusiastic at being outside in the cold than others do. Dog Monday, most enthusiastic of them all, runs circles around everyone's legs.

Faith, meanwhile, just looks indignant. "Hey! That's unfair! You already outnumbered us as it was!" she protests. The dog backs her up with a loud yap.

Jem grins like her in a very 'cat that got the cream'-kind of way. "Well, there just happens to be more of us. You can't fault us for what's fact."

Putting a calming hand on his sister's arm (who looks very much like a _different_ kind of cat), Jerry suggests in a very reasonable voice, "We might select teams. That way, our individual strengths would be more evenly distributed."

Both Faith and Jem seem to consider this, while Monday looks from one to the other. I take the moment to scoot closer to Walter and whisper, "What are we doing? And when did I sign up for participating?"

"We're having a snowman building conquest," Walter murmurs back. "And I don't think you ever signed up to anything – _I_ certainly didn't –, but I also don't think Jem much cared about your consent once he figured out that in roping you and Shirley in, he could significantly beef up our numbers."

At least now I understand why Faith is complaining. The way it's standing, it's six against ten.

"Are we now supposed to select teams like back in school?" I quietly ask of Walter.

"I hope not," he mutters. "They'd just start arguing who gets to pick."

True.

Sometimes, living in a family as opinionated as mine can be pretty exhausting.

Up front, Joy has just stepped forward, making eye contact with Jerry. "So, I suppose that first-borns get to choose?"

At least now Jem and Faith are united in their indignation. (The dog, however, is still wagging his tail excitedly.) You want to bet this wasn't what they had in mind?

But before either of them can come up with a good reason for why second-borns make far better team captains, Nan throws her hands in the air in an exasperated motion. "For Heaven's sake! Di and I will join the Meredith side, and everyone will be happy, alright?"

Di looks up, mildly surprised at this announcement, but I don't suspect her to be emotionally involved enough to care either way. And while Jem, after mentally doing the maths, _does_ open his mouth in protest (probably to argue that at six years old, Lily is much more helpful than Izzie at three and a half), Joy stifles this by putting a firm hand over his mouth. "Excellent solution," she announces, and I guess that settles that.

Beside me, Walter breathes a soft sigh of relief.

"Very well," declares Faith with an encouraging clap of her hands, already back to her usual upbeat self. "Merediths – and honorary Merediths – convene!"

"And Blythes to me!" calls Jem, having shaken off Joy's hand, and waves an arm in the air. Monday leaps at least a meter upwards.

"Do I really have to?" comes the despondent question from behind me. I turn to look at Shirley, looking fairly miserable beneath his striped bobble hat.

Shirley spoke too quietly for his voice to carry towards the more enthusiastic members of the family, but Walter heard and, clearly, feels him. "Unfortunately, I can't see a way out," he answers sympathetically. "If you leave, it skews our numbers again. It won't do."

Never one to argue with logic, Shirley nods and gives a long-suffering sigh. "Best get it over with, then."

Over where Jem is sticking his heads together with the Raine side of the family – an excited Izzie perched on her father's back and an equally excited Monday trying to climb up there as well – I just catch Joy say the words: "…someone to go inside and get stuff we can use for the face. A carrot, some buttons –"

"Me!" I interrupt her loudly, raising a hand. "Me, I'll do it."

Joy nods in my general direction. "Alright, you do it. Now as to –"

But, having thus gotten out of the better part of this endeavour, I tune her out. Instead, I smile a smug little smile to Walter and Shirley – both giving me dirty looks in response –, pivot on my heel, and march back inside the house.

Unfortunately, it doesn't take long for me to be reminded of the flaw in my plan. For while quick reflexes got me out of that ominous snowman building competition, they led me right into the next pitfall.

I haven't so much as stepped a foot into the kitchen, when Mum pounces.

"Rilla! Sweetie!" she calls out.

I stop dead.

"I, uh… I just wanted to… I just need a carrot, real quick…" I stammer, caught between just walking backwards and trying to disappear, and getting the carrot to keep Joy and Jem happy.

Mum tuts at my use of the word 'carrot' (Though what else am I supposed to call it? 'Beetroot in a colour mixed from red and yellow'?) but is not to be deterred either way. "Ah, yes, we have some in the pantry," she announces. "Let me just show you."

To their credit, Grandma Bertha and Grandmother Marilla exchange a surprised glance at Mum's very blatant attempt to get me on my own, but to their discredit, neither comes to my rescue. Instead, without even listening to my feeble protest, Mum shoves me into the pantry, closing the door behind us.

It's a bit of a tight fit.

"Did you call him?" she asks, voice quiet, but eyes shining curiously.

" _Mum_!" I hiss back.

My mother, after one attempt at the "Do you know what you're getting yourself into?"-talk (which I cut short by pointing out that I wasn't even sure if there _was_ anything to get into), apparently decided to pretend that Ken is just like any other guy. Which is refreshing, but also simplifies matters in a way I'm not sure is helpful. Mostly, because she then proceeded to spend the better part of a week pestering me to call Ken and make him talk it out. She's nothing if not persistent, Mum is. (I, for my part, tried my best to avoid her. But there are only so many places one can hide.)

"I don't see why you won't call him," she insists.

"I can't very well call him and be all clingy while he's up there in his _sodding castle in Scotland_!" I argue, having to consciously remind myself to keep my voice down.

Mum's eyes glint in triumph. "Ah, but he's not in Scotland anymore. He had an engagement in Truro yesterday, which is down in Cornwall."

I blink at her, feeling a little gobsmacked. "Mum," I whisper. "Mum, are you _stalking_ him?"

She looks mildly offended at the suggestion. "It's not stalking if the information is freely available on the internet," she declares loftily. "And anyway, my point is that he's not with his family in their castle anymore. I thought you might feel more comfortable contacting him now."

Well… maybe the _littlest_ bit?

I purse my lips, thinking this over. Mum reaches out and strokes a hand over my head. "I don't mean to pressure you," she adds, more earnest now. "But I've seen you this past week, quietly trying to decipher some further meaning from those short text messages he sends, and I hate to see you this… unsure of yourself. It's not good."

No argument there. Because while Ken still fairly reliably responds to my messages, there was little in his replies to clear up this whole… situation.

"What would you have me do then?" I ask, swallowing down a lump in my throat.

"Talk to him. Ask him. The worst thing he can do is tell you he doesn't want to see you again, but at least then you'd know where you're at." It's the sympathy evident in her voice that tells me that she knows it's not half as easy as it sounds.

I sigh softly. "I don't want to do it over the phone." Not that I want to do it in person either, but… if it's between the Scylla and Charybdis, Walter did say to always chose Scylla as the slightly less undesirable option.

Mum nods slowly. "No, I guess I can understand that," she agrees. "How about you ask him when he'll be back in New York instead? Given the situation, I do think that's a perfectly reasonable question to ask."

Hm… she might have a point.

"I… I guess I can do that," I answer haltingly. I mean, there's nothing wrong with simply asking when he'll be back, right? It's a perfectly innocent, conversational question, isn't it?

Mum smiles encouragingly. "There's my girl! And always remember – he might have a title, but that doesn't make him special. You're all kinds of special yourself, and if he can't appreciate that, well…" She makes a gesture as if to say, 'chuck him'.

Laughing softly, I nod my head, slowly at first and then ever more firmly. "Yes. Thanks, Mum."

"That's the spirit! And now –" she reaches behind herself and produces a carrot, "– best take this and be gone. Your grandmothers are probably already wondering what we're doing in the pantry, and we all know those oldest two children of mine are not above sending out a search party for you either."

And lo and behold, there's a soft knock on the door.

"Rilla?" comes Dan's polite voice. "Joyce wants me to tell you that – and I quote – she knows you're hiding in here and if you don't come out of the house voluntarily, she'll come and get you yourself."

Mum raises her eyebrows comically. "Best not risk it," she advises in a whisper, her eyes alight with amusement.

Smiling, I nod agreement, but before I leave the pantry, I reach forward to give her a quick hug. I don't quite know how she does it, but no matter how much I may fight it, Mum always knows just how to make me feel better about myself.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'These Are The Days of Our Lives' (written by Roger Taylor, released by Queen in 1991)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Oh, it's the iPod that is psychic. They're mysterious contraptions, working in mysterious ways. I can't claim that honour, much as I'd like to ;). It's a gorgeous song though, so your iPod has good taste (Joan Baez also sings it beautifully).  
Very happy you like my Merediths! We'll get to see more of them at a later point, but I thought I'd spread out the introductions a bit. Lily sprang to life spontaneously during the writing of this chapter, but I hope to do something with her. And there's definitely more to Cecilia! She's a handful, indeed, and she has a deciding role to play before this story is over (plus, I'm having lots of fun developing her.)  
How did Marilla take Gilbert the Rocker? That seems to be a popular question. I'm thinking she was quietly disapproving of him wasting so much time on all that noise, but ultimately happy that he was happy. Same as with Joy. Would she have liked for things to have played out differently? Certainly. Did she still defend her granddaughter from outside attacks? You bet she did!  
I'm trying to do more with Anne as a confidant and advisor for her children here, so I'm glad you liked her and Rilla's conversation. Rilla desperately needed someone to talk to and who to turn to but Mum?_


	13. The heat pipes just cough

_New York City, USA  
January 2011_

 **The heat pipes just cough**

"Georgie!" I chide. "Either get under the blanket or stay on top of it! It's getting cold."

To emphasize my words, I poke him into the side, causing him to swish his tail in annoyance. His front half is hidden under the covers, with the back half still sticking out, thus creating a funnel for the cold air to get inside my blanket cocoon, which I do _not_ appreciate.

Thankfully, George has apparently now made up his mind to fully crawl under the blanket, cutting off the gush of cold air that hitherto assailed my right hip. Still not too happy with the current state of things, he moves around under the covers some, until he winds up sticking out his head at the top, very near my own.

"Hello boy," I greet him with a smile.

He blinks at me, unimpressed.

"I know that life's much warmer for someone with fur," I concede his point. "But I don't have fur."

George pulls up a paw and starts licking it.

"Yes, you're right. It's my own fault for not having fur," I sigh. In the summer heat, I always feel for him, positively wilting in his silky pelt, but in winter, being furry has definite advantages.

Not deigning to answer, but obviously decreeing the paw to be suitably cleaned, George pulls his head back under the blanket. There's some nudging and kneading as he gets comfortable, but finally, he settles down, curling tightly against my stomach.

"Now that's more like it." Quite pleased at this additional source of warmth, I reach down to scratch his ears. He presses his head into my hand and purrs in appreciation, making him feel like a buzzing little heating machine against my body.

Shuffling a little, I pull the covers up over my icy nose and ears. Drawing my legs close to my body, I proceed to curl myself around George's softly purring form, stealing as much of his fur-induced heat as possible. Thankfully, he's in a cuddling mood, for otherwise, he would never allow this.

Momentarily, I consider whether to reach out a hand from under the blanket and take up the book sitting half a meter from my head, but determine it to be a much too strenuous action. I must conserve body heat at all cost and the best thing to do that is just to move as little as possible.

In fact, if I just go to sleep, maybe it will magically be warmer when I wake up again? It doesn't even have to be a hundred years. Three months should totally suffice. Not that it _feels_ as if it will ever be spring again, but experience says that every winter must be over, eventually.

Yawning, I let my eyes drift shut. Technically speaking, it's too early for sleep, but then, it's too cold for anything else. (Maybe I should have taken Mrs Weisz up on her offer of an electric blanket after all?)

Minutes pass, and I just feel myself nodding off when the piercing sound of the doorbell rips through the air.

Unwilling, I open my eyes. The doorbell is still ringing.

Holding up the blanket, I look at George who has raised his head and looks right back at me. "You live here as well. You could learn to open the door some time, you know?" I inform him.

George does not move.

"Come on, let's play on it. Rock-paper-claw, and the loser has to get up and get the door," I suggest. It's a convenient game to play, at least for me. Quite predictable.

George yawns and settles his head back on a paw. The doorbell rings again.

Rolling my eyes at him, I slip out from under the blankets, biting back a curse as my feet hit the too cold ground, and pat over towards the door, pulling my cardigan tighter around myself as I walk.

"Yes?" I ask of the intercom, not doing much to mask my annoyance.

"It's me."

Startled, I stand up a little straighter.

What is he doing here? _Now_?

Buzzing him in, I reach out for the handle of the door to open it, standing on the doorstep with my arms wrapped around myself and listening to his footsteps as he walks up the stairs.

Coming up the last set of steps, Kens face breaks out into a smile when he sees me and my heart jumps up into my throat. It's not that I've _forgotten_ how handsome he is, but… well, he is. Handsome, I mean.

"Hey," I greet, my voice sounding a little off as I speak around the lump of heart in my throat. "I didn't expect you this soon."

I stretch out a hand towards him and he catches it between his gloved ones. (It's nice. Warm.)

"I told you I was returning today, didn't I?" he wonders, his brow knitting in confusion.

Well, yes. But how was I to know that "being back in the city" equals "being back on my doorstep"?

"I thought you might want to settle in first," I explain with a half-shrug. My hand is still firmly held between his.

His expression clears. "Oh, I did. I dropped off my luggage over at my place and got changed."

We obviously have a differing understanding of what 'settling in' entails. But then, if he came here basically straight from the airport… well, I'm not likely to complain, am I?

"Having settled _that_ ," he continues with a sly little smile, "may I kiss you now?"

Who am I to say no when he's asking so politely?

Inclining my head slightly in agreement, I am immediately drawn forward into his arms. His lips find mine and… mmmhhhh. This _is_ nice.

Gently, he guides me backwards and I'm vaguely aware of the sound of the door falling shut. Not that I care, much, when he's kissing me like this. My hands try to tug his scarf free, but it won't budge and I don't have the patience for it, instead sliding my fingers upwards to weave them into his hair. He had more success with the belt of my cardigan, his hands now slipping beneath my sweater… tugging at the shirt beneath… finding the hem of my tank top…

Abruptly, he pulls away. "How many layers are you _wearing_?" For a moment, his expression veers between incredulity and amusement, finally setting on a combination of both.

I blink, trying to focus. "Mhh… five? I think."

He leans forward, pushing aside the cardigan, and pulling at all other layers until his fingers meet the skin of my stomach. ( _Where_ did his gloves go?) "Five," he confirms, grinning up at me. Then, peering closer – "Are those _tights_?" One finger runs along the top of those self-same tights peeking out from beneath my jeans.

Rolling my eyes, I push my collection of shirts down (his hands, however, stay where they are, lightly moving past my waist to my back, making me shiver). "Yes, those are tights," I confirm. Lovely, warm, woollen ones at that.

Ken laughs, straitening again. "If this is meant to work as some kind of chastity belt…"

" _Funny_ ," I reply, aiming for wryness and yet not totally succeeding. In truth, it _is_ a bit funny.

"No chastity belt then. Good." He looks quite pleased with himself as he leans forward to drop a kiss on the tip of my nose.

I make a point to scrunch up the nose, drawing a smile from him. "I'm just cold," I explain, shrugging slightly.

"Now that you mention it, it _is_ quite chilly in here," he acknowledges, while at the same time running one finger along my spine, causing a shiver to run through my body.

"Case in point," he adds, thought the smugness of his grin leaves little doubt that he knows _exactly_ just how little the cold had to do with my reaction.

My half-hearted glare does little to wipe the grin from his face, nor does the finger I poke into his chest help much. "The heating is broken. My landlord wants to look at it 'in the next few days', which could very well end up being in two or three weeks. He doesn't have the best track record. Until he manages to get the heating fixed, I shall wear as many layers of clothing as I please," I inform Ken haughtily.

"You could have said. I would have brought you a jumper or two. Socks, too. Shetland wool. We basically live in it when up at Balmoral," he remarks, now finally looking somewhat sympathetic.

"Is it as cold as here in… well, Balmoral?" I ask, stumbling slightly over the name.

Ken laughs. "Oh, far colder. I mean, outside temperatures don't even get that cold, though the wind can be a beast. But the castle itself is over 150 years old. It's draughty, prone to dampness and to call the heating unreliable would be a euphemism."

Castle. Of course.

His gaze finds mine. "But you're Canadian. Shouldn't you be used to the cold?" he wonders, now clearly back to teasing.

" _Outside_ , yes," I nod seriously. "Not inside though. I like the inside to be warm. And besides, I left most of my really warm clothing in Canada, _because_ it tends to be colder there. So that actually worked to my disadvantage."

"I'll get you some of those jumpers," he promises. "For now though, I've got something else for you."

I blink in surprise. "For me?"

"Mhm. Belated Christmas present," he adds, while moving his hands out from under my clothes, making sure to lightly graze my skin as he does.

I take a deep breath. "I… I don't have anything for you." I mean, how was I to know we were on 'giving Christmas presents'-level already?

"And I had no birthday present for you. I'd say we're even," he points out comfortably.

"My birthday is in July. You didn't even know I existed in July," I argue, though not quite succeeding in keeping the smile off my face.

"Grave oversight on my part, wouldn't you say?" he asks, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

I nod. "Quite."

"In that case, allow me to…" He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a –

A _toothbrush_?

Raising both eyebrows sceptically, I look from the toothbrush to him and back again. "Well… thank you. I _suppose_."

Laughing, Ken shakes his head. "No. That one's mine."

"Quite the optimist, aren't we?" I ask archly, doing my very most to suppress the smile threatening to break through.

He shrugs modestly. "Yes, that's me."

"Some might also call it preposterous…" I point out.

He opens his mouth to respond, but then seems to think better of it. Instead, he carefully places the toothbrush on the kitchen counter next to us (so _that_ 's where his gloves went), cups my face with one hand and leans forward for another kiss.

No peck on the nose, this one.

When he does pull back after… a while, the smug smile is firmly back in place. "You were saying?" he teases, his face no more than an inch or two from mine.

"I…" I begin, then trail off.

What _was_ I saying?

"You know what? Nothing. Nothing at all." I'm feeling slightly short of breath, though whether from the kiss or his proximity, I couldn't say. Probably both.

Laughing, he leans back somewhat. A second later, a box appears in front of my face. A small, dark blue box that can only contain –

"Jewellery?" The word is past my lips before I can stop it.

Ken inclines his head slightly. "Not alright?" he asks. "I figured that apart from immediate family, you're the only woman I _can_ give jewellery to."

Well… I do like the sound of this 'only woman'-bit, there's no denying _that_ , but… I take a deep breath.

"No, it's… thanks. Thank you," I make my voice sound firmer than I feel and look up to give him a smile.

Gingerly, I reach out to take the box from him. Opening it, I see a delicate gold chain with a small, circle-like charm at the end. Breathing, I realise, comes a little easier. I don't know quite _what_ I expected (diamonds, maybe, or something far too ostentatious), but this is good. This, I can wear without someone thinking I robbed a bank.

When I raise my eyes to his, I find him watching me closely. "It's lovely," I tell him, and mean it. "Thank you. Really."

"I'm glad you like it." His smile, now, is sincere, and out of an impulse, I stand up on my tiptoes to give him a soft kiss.

His fingers enclose the hand I placed on his cheek. "You're icy," he remarks.

"Before you forced me out of it, I did resolve to spend the rest of the evening scooped up in bed," I explain with a shrug, my gaze once again drawn back down to the necklace.

"Then let's get you back there," Ken decides. A quick look reveals him to be quite serious, the remark having none of the suggestive undertones it might have had. Which is good, I guess. Not that I wouldn't have liked… I mean, I liked it back when we… oh, it's just too cold, alright?

I carefully place the box with the necklace on the counter, right next to his toothbrush and gloves, then watch Ken shrug out of his coat and slip off his shoes.

"George's somewhere beneath the blanket," I warn as he moves over to the bed.

" _The_ blanket?" he repeats with a comical expression. "That looks like three blankets at least."

Three is correct. With Mrs Lynde's quilt thrown on top for good measure.

"It's cold," I remind as I reach past him to throw back the blankets, revealing a slightly dishevelled George. He blinks up into the sudden light, looking none too pleased with this interruption of his beauty sleep.

"Your Majesty," Ken greets with a little mock bow. "Apologies for disturbing you."

George yawns unashamedly.

It takes some shuffling until we have all found our places, but in the end, I'm curled up in Ken's arms, facing him (there definitely _is_ an argument to be made for the sharing of body heat), with George having moved out from under the blanket mountain to now lay atop my feet (this, too, a welcome source of warmth).

"Ken?" I query. "Can I ask you something?"

He makes a sound that I take for confirmation.

"Why do you all go up to Scotland in winter? I mean, you have other… other places to stay, right? Why spend Christmas in the coldest one you have?" Because let's be honest, that _is_ puzzling behaviour.

For a moment, he doesn't react. Then, I can feel him laughing quietly. " _That_ ," he declares, "is a very good question."

Well, yes. That's why I asked it.

"The southernmost palace we have is Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, though I suspect that London is actually a little warmer in winter," he muses. "We've got several places _there_ , but it doesn't provide much holiday feeling."

"No, I wouldn't think so. I mean, that road basically runs right through –," _Buckingham Palace_ , I meant to say, but the name catches in my throat. "Your London home," I amend.

I have a feeling he noticed the change of term, but mercifully doesn't comment on it. Instead, he asks, "You've been? To London?"

There we go.

"Actually, I've been to –," deep breath, Rilla, "to Buckingham Palace."

"Really? To Buck House?" He shuffles slightly so he can look at me a bit better. "How come?"

Groaning, I hide my face in his shoulder. "I just went to see it, alright? A normal tourist, doing normal touristy things. I paid the entrance fee and everything. And then I didn't eat for two days to make up for the expense."

Ken laughs. "That bad, huh?"

I raise my head, my indignation just about winning out against the embarrassment. " _Excuse_ me? People are made to pay through their sodding noses for the privilege of being herded through a couple of rooms alongside, oh, a thousand or so other tourists."

"We do make a point to set up a new exhibition each year," he points out, but I can tell he's ribbing me. "When were you there?"

"Summer of 2007. They had an exhibition in honour of, well…" I let the sentence trails off.

"My grandparents," nods Ken. "I remember. It would have been their sixtieth wedding anniversary that July."

Well, if he says so…

"Exhibition or not, it was still outrageously expensive," I grumble, causing him to reach out and ruffle my hair.

"I'll give you a private tour when you're in London the next time," he promises. "Show you all the good bits we usually keep hidden from the public."

"Such as?" I enquire, my curiosity piqued.

He grins. "We have a swimming pool in the basement."

"Is that so?" I ask, raising one eyebrow and suppressing a smile.

"Uh-huh," he nods. "And a private ATM as well."

"Now you're just showing off," I chide, though there's laughter in my voice.

"Whatever it takes to impress my lady," he replies with feigned sincerity, looking quite pleased with himself when I laugh.

I cuddle closer to him. "Alright then. Swimming pool and ATM. I demand to see both during my private tour."

"Duly noted," he agrees. A second later, he's overcome by a big yawn.

"Tired?" I ask. Now that I look at him a little closer, he does appear rather knackered.

Ken gives me a sheepish smile. "A bit. I'm still running on London time. It's already past midnight in good ole England and I was up early. Before I flew out, I had a breakfast meeting with a charity that focuses on battling addiction."

"Poor you," I commiserate. "How long have you been up?"

"Nineteen hours? Twenty?" he guesses.

"Well, that's plenty. George thinks it's already too long if he's up for a continuous stretch of twenty _minutes_ , not to speak of hours," I explain and peer towards the cat, sound asleep at the bottom of the bed.

Ken nods seriously. "Clever cat."

"Obviously," I agree, making sure to keep my own expression straight.

He smiles, then reaches out to touch my cheek. "I realise that this is turning out to be the oddest visit you've ever had, but if I stay here, I do fear I'm going to fall asleep on you in about ten minutes. If you want me to, I could leave, or…?" He lets the question hang in the air.

I shake my head decidedly. "You're tired. This is a bed. Sounds like a perfect fit to me."

"Compellingly argued," he acknowledge, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Oh, shush," I laugh, reaching over him to switch off the light. "Just go to sleep."

"As the lady wishes," he shoots back.

I roll my eyes at him in reply, but don't deign to form a verbal answer. He, too, has obviously decided to take me at my word, for he settles down more comfortably, keeping an arm over my waist to hold me close.

"Good night, Cinderilla."

"Sweet dreams, Sleeping Beauty."

I can feel him chuckle at my words, but another yawn cuts off any reply. A half-smile in the dark and he's asleep basically the moment he closes this eyes.

(How unfair. _I_ want to be able to fall asleep this easily!)

Shifting to lie more comfortably, I close my eyes as well, but sleep won't come. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm as wide-awake as I've ever been.

Ken breathing deeply beside me, George snoring softly at my feet, I stare into the darkness and know without a doubt that I will never fall asleep. Not like this, anyway.

Making up my mind, I slip out of the bed, careful not to disturb either Ken or George, and tiptoe over to the bathroom, picking up my mobile phone as I pass the table. Once inside, I quietly lock the door behind me and sit down on the bath mat, my back against the wall.

Two taps and the phone speed-dials Mum.

One, two, three rings, then – "Sweetie!"

"Hey Mum," I greet, my voice slightly subdued so as not to wake anyone in the next room.

Mum, naturally, doesn't miss that. "You have company."

"He's asleep. I'm in the bathroom," I explain quickly.

There's a short pause on the other side. "By 'he' we mean…" She trails off.

"Uh-huh," I nod.

"Just checking," states Mum, though seriously, how many men does she think have any reason to be asleep in my bed?

For a second or two, there's silence.

"He arrived from England today. Came by my place almost directly from the airport. Or so he says, anyway," I tell her.

The fingers of my free hand start combing through the knots of the bath mat.

"That's… that's good, isn't it?" Mum asks carefully.

"Yeah. I think so," I agree quietly.

Mum makes a thoughtful sound. "So… anything else?"

"We kissed, cuddled, talked. Then he fell asleep. Jetlag, I think," I answer. I know it's what you'd call 'the short version', but that's most of what happened, isn't it?

"Did you talk about – ?" begins Mum. But I know what she wants to ask and don't much want to hear it.

So, I cut her off. "He gave me a present."

"A present?" There's definite surprise in her voice. "What kind?"

"Jewellery."

I can hear Mum take a deep breath.

"Rilla…" It's just my name, but it carries about five different meanings, all rolled neatly into one. I know _exactly_ what she's not saying.

"It's a necklace," I assure quickly. "A very delicate one. Can't have been that expensive."

A beat. "Gold?"

"Plated," I amend.

Actually, I'm fairly sure it's solid, but whatever helps Mum sleep at night. Even solid gold, I don't think the necklace cost that much into the three figures.

On the other end of the line, Mum lets go of a long breath.

"He promised me a private tour of Buckingham Palace the next time I'm in London," I add, fully aware of how absolutely surreal the words sound.

Once again, a moment of silence. Then – "Rilla, darling… what does this mean?"

I frown at the shower curtain. "Does everything always have to mean something?"

"If a man gives you jewellery and invites you to visit his home, that should mean something. Especially this man," Mum point out.

"Well, what do _you_ think it means?" My voice sounds a little rebellious, but there's part of me very interested in her answer.

"What did he say?" Mum immediately asks back.

The shower curtain absorbs my glare without complaint.

"We… we might… _not_ have talked about it in this much detail," I admit quickly.

Mum sighs. "You need to talk about this, Rilla. Did you ask him why he didn't call the entire time he was in England?"

I press my lips together. "No."

"You should." Mum's voice is gentle, but there's a persistent edge to it.

"But _why_?" I'm struggling to keep my voice down. "Why do we always have to talk everything out? He's here, he gave me a present, he invited me to see his home and now he's asleep in my bed. What more do you _need_?"

"I don't need anything, darling," answers Mum, her voice composed. "I'm not sure whether it's enough for you though."

"Well, it _is_ ," I insist, stubbornly jutting my chin forward, even though there's no-one to witness it but the shower curtain.

Another long breath from Mum. "What are you two then? A couple?"

I… I _think_ so?

Can't say that though. It just proves her point.

"Sure," I confirm, sounding more confident than I feel.

"Mh," makes Mum, less convinced than I'd like. "And what does _that_ mean?"

What is she talking about?

"I don't think I understand the question," I remark stubbornly. (I mean, I might have an _idea_. But I don't have to admit that, do I?)

"He's hardly just anyone, Rilla," Mum points out reasonably. "If you are his girlfriend… do you have any idea what you're letting yourself in for?"

"I can handle it, Mum," I persist. "It's fine."

A beat. "But _is_ it? It feels like it's potentially quite… enormous."

"Only if it's blown out of proportion. Which is exactly what you are doing," I argue. "I like him. I'm reasonably sure he likes me as well. Why can't that be enough? Why do you always have to think five steps ahead?"

"Because in this case, I think it's wise to be prepared. It might not look like much now, but say you're still a couple in a year or two… then what?"

"Then _nothing_!" Why can't she _see_ that? Why does she have to make it all complicated?

"Rilla… you do know that one day, he will be king, don't you?" Mum asks gently.

Frustrated, I let out a breath. "Yes, I know. Thanks for pointing it out. But… so _what_? It's not like that concerns _me_ , is it?"

Mum sighs. "No. No, maybe not."

But there's a note of doubt in her voice that I don't care for at all.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
What you don't know (and have no way of knowing) is that in addition to being an unapologetic history nerd and a madcap research fanatic, I also went trough a Romanov phase some years ago. It wasn't limited to Nicholas and Family, but certainly featured them heavily. (I even went to see their former rooms in Alexander Palace when I visited Saint Petersburg back in... oh, 2011?) So, while my knowledge on modern royals might still be sketchy, I've got my Romanovs down pretty good ;).  
My timeline deviates only very late in the 19th century, when the Romanovs are already set on their accelerated path to doom. It mostly concern British Royals, too, while Russian history remains pretty untouched by my changes, meaning that the Romanov murders and the revolution(s) happen as they did in real life. (Except for one slight detail, which we will learn about later on.)  
Part of what makes this story interesting for me is that I finally get to write all these characters again. DC had Rilla fairly isolated and we did, indeed, never really meet any of the girls or parents, so while I've written them before in other stories, it has been a while. With this chapter, I had lots of fun with Shirley especially! I loved giving him that annoyed teenager vibe, but also wanted him to be a proper part of that family. I dislike how the gets excluded in the books, so this is very much me trying to put that right. I feel that as the youngest, there ought to be a bit of a connection between him and Rilla, and I totally enjoyed writing her in big sister-mode for once! I'm also very happy that my version of Anne continues to work for you and you are, of course, entirely right - Anne would totally do that! (My condolences about you getting teased for your nose. I have the kind of upturned nose that makes me look a decade younger that I am. What I'm saying is, noses can be a pain whichever way they look!)  
It's winter in my part of the world as well, and while we rarely get snow either, it's certainly cold enough for me! Not that I need much of an incentive to break out my collection of woollen hats anywhere, ever ;).  
_

 _To the anonymous Guest:  
Hello and thanks for getting in touch :). Marilla is shown talking to quite a few people (Dan, Di, Rilla, Anne and Bertha, I think), but you're right in saying that we haven't seen much of her yet (nor of Bertha, come to think of it). I just had to spread out the family introductions a bit, for otherwise, this Christmas break would have gone on for another five chapters. But it's a long story, so rest assured that I'll get to Marilla as well before it's over.  
_


	14. Lies in every step you walk

_New York City, USA  
February 2011_

 **Lies in every step you walk**

"Rilla? Do you have any idea?"

Startled, I turn my head. Both Megan and Chelsea are watching me with interest and what looks like mild amusement.

"Ah, well…" I lean forward to cast a look at the book opened in front of me. "Let's see…" But the words on the page might as well be in Kiswahili, for how little sense they make to me. It's all just… stuff. (I also have no idea which particular problem they're working on, which is not helping matters.)

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Megan jump to her feet and round the table to come stand beside me. Shoving my hand away, she starts turning several pages of my book until she finds what she's looking for.

"Try this one," she advises and beams at me.

I look at the page. If anything, it makes even less sense than before.

Scooting her chair over to my other side, Chelsea reaches out to point at the open book. "Look here. We've figured out the first part of it, but the second stumps us. Any ideas?"

Shaking my head free of unhelpful (if otherwise pleasant) thoughts, I bend over the book and try to concentrate in earnest. Because it's not like I'm not trying. I know we need to figure this out if we want to do reasonably well in the exam, even if it's a while off yet. It's just that my mind tends to get easily distracted these days. Just right now, it was replaying this morning for me. Ken and I, both running a little late, decided to save some time by sharing the shower. The effect of which was that he was an hour late to a meeting about aid grants to some African country, I missed my first class entirely and George had to wait for his second breakfast. So much for saving time.

"Rilla?" asks Megan and nudges me in the side to get my attention.

Ah, drat.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I apologise, dropping back against the backrest of my chair and rubbing my neck in frustration. "I just…"

"You have other things on your mind," finishes Chelsea kindly. "That's alright."

"Not helpful though," I sigh.

Megan, still standing beside me, bobs up and down on the balls of her feet. "But nicer than this boring stuff here. You were smiling," she points out.

Hardly surprising, is it?

"Boring or not, we have to master it," I declare, screwing my eyes up in an effort to clear my mind. "So, let's focus."

I _can_ focus. At least I'm reasonably sure I can.

"You do that. I'm leaving you to it though. I have training," announces Megan, sounding not the least bit sorry at the prospect of getting to leave this stuffy library rather sooner than later.

(She likes sports, Megan does. Otherwise, she's lovely.)

"Which training?" asks Chelsea, looking past me at Megan.

It's a valid question, too. Megan plays both volleyball and basketball and is, as far as I'm aware, also quite a good fencer. (Fencing being an altogether baffling sport, if you ask me. It's mind-bogglingly boring for something so inherently violent.)

"Tennis. I thought I'd try out something new," Megan explains happily. With flying fingers, she collects her things and shoves them haphazardly into her bag. Then, with a cheery wave, she is gone, almost jogging towards the doors leading to freedom.

I turn to Chelsea and raise an eyebrow. She smiles back. "She spent an hour sitting still in a library. That's as much as anyone can expect from Meg," she points out.

"Probably," I concede. Megan is forever moving.

Then, with a long-suffering sigh, I turn back towards the book. ( _Why_ did I decide to go to college again?) "Tell me what you figured out while I was… mentally absent and we'll have a stab at the rest of it together?" I suggest to Chelsea.

She nods in agreement, sliding her notes over to me for a better look. This time, I do manage to focus and we make reasonable progress for a good half hour and at least seven pages. Only then do we run into another problem that, even with our combined brain power, leaves us both scratching our heads.

Throwing my head back in frustration, I blow out a long breath. "Can't we take another course instead?"

"I'm afraid not. It's mandatory," Chelsea answers regretfully.

Figures.

"But I think the course material mentions another book that might help," she continues, already going through her notes, her forehead crinkling in concentration.

I welcome the little break, taking a moment or two to stretch my arms above my head and stare at the ceiling. (One of the lights flickers. You'd think that with all that money NYU takes from us, they could at least get the lights to work properly.)

Far too soon, Chelsea sits up straighter. "I've got it." She shows me a printed list of literature, pointing out a specific entry. (The list looks vaguely familiar. I wonder if I also got it? And what happened to it?)

"You take a break, I'll look for the book," I decide, taking the sheet of paper from her. Because, let's be honest, in our small study group Chelsea is the only one undisputedly pulling her weight. The least I can do is play runner.

Leaving a gratefully smiling Chelsea behind, I turn to make my way up to eighth floor to get the book she indicated. Bobst Library is so huge that 'fetching a book real quick' easily turns into a real workout, especially when you're in the study rooms on one of the lower levels and the book you need all the way up on eighth or ninth floor. (Seventh is just music and why you'd need that many books to study _music_ is yet another of life's mysteries I still have to figure out.).

Still, at least you have some great views while trudging up those stairs. (There are elevators, but who has time to wait for those anyway?) From the outside, Bobst looks like a big red monolith, but the inside is all glass and gold and light. And from the windows of the reading room up on tenth floor, you have a pretty sweet view over Washington Square Park towards to the Empire State Building. The perks of living in New York, I guess.

I have just reached eight floor and turned right towards the economics section, when my phone rings for attention. Fishing it out of my back pocket, I take a few steps to the side to lean against the railing with its added Plexiglas barrier (installed, apparently, after a couple of suicides some years back) to look down at the atrium below.

"Hey," I greet softly after taking the call, my free hand unconsciously moving up to twirl the circle charm of my gold necklace. (I told inquiring friends – read: Nia – that it was a Christmas present from my parents. I have yet to come up with an excuse to tell inquiring family members.)

"Hello beautiful," comes Ken's voice over the line. "How are you doing?"

"I'm in the library. Studying. Trying to, anyway," I answer with a wry smile at my surroundings. "You?"

He chuckles. " _Trying_ to concentrate on a meeting to organise a conference on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space next month."

Well, Grandpa John would certainly be all over that.

"What would the non-peaceful use of outer space look like?" I wonder.

"Who knows? It all dates back to some Cold War hysteria. But once the UN has a committee established, they're unlikely to let go of it again. They have treaties and conventions in place and everything," explains Ken, though he does sound about as enthusiastic as I feel about the economics problem waiting for me.

Changing tracks, he asks, "Did you get to college alright this morning?"

I actually snort, causing a girl walking past me to turn and give me a funny look. Dropping my voice even further, I whisper into the phone, "Are you kidding me? I missed my entire first class."

"Sorry to hear that." But he doesn't _sound_ very sorry, does he?

"Oh, it was only 20th century American lit. Probably just Salinger and Fitzgerald again. I'll wing it. _But_ I also have a nicely sized bruise on my elbow. From, you know…" I trail off.

'From hitting it against the wall of the shower cubicle', I was going to say. But these may not be the surroundings for that particular conversation.

He does, at least, sound sympathetic now. "I'm certainly sorry to hear _that_ ," he assures. "I could have a look at it tonight. Kiss it better."

Oh, I bet he could.

"I have to work tonight. I'd promised to take over a shift," I tell him with a sigh.

He hums in reply, but doesn't say anything.

"I can't blow them off _again_. I already did it twice this month." My regret is certainly genuine. It's not that I don't _want_ to skip work. I mean, who in their right mind wants to bus tables when they can instead spend the evening with a handsome man, who's probably going to feel _very_ bad about that bruise and put some effort into making up for it?

Ken seems to consider that for a moment. "When are you off? I'll come by whenever you're free."

Lightly drumming my fingers against the railing, I try to decide what to answer. I am fully aware that I should tell him no. I _should_ tell him that I have an early class tomorrow and that I can't afford to miss that one and that I still have heaps work to do and that a whole evening waitressing usually just leaves me wanting to sleep. I _should_.

"Not before ten. Shall I just call you?"

"Sounds good." I can hear the smile in his voice and just like that, all thoughts of what I _should_ be doing vanish into thin air. Sleep, after all, is for the weak.

"Shall I bring a late night snack?" Ken offers, his voice a smidge teasing.

"You know me too well!" I exclaim, while mentally already calculating how often I'm going to have to run up and down those stairs again to make up for a late night snack I _really_ shouldn't eat.

He laughs. "That's the idea. Anyway, I have to head back inside. See you tonight!"

"Yes. See you tonight." I answer, trying and not really succeeding in keeping what is probably a pretty barmy smile from my face.

He's thrown my whole life into disarray. There's no arguing that. But I really wouldn't have it any other way.

Pocketing the phone again, I make my way over to the rows of bookcases that hold very many clever and probably even more not so clever books on economics. Finding the right row, I let one finger run along the spines of the books in search for the correct one, which might, hopefully, help us out with that pesky problem.

I have just reached a section that looks promising, when I hear a voice behind me, "Rilla?"

Turning, I spy a figure at the other end of the row that does, upon closer inspection, reveals itself to be Brian Kovac from my American Lit class.

"Hello Brian," I greet politely while still trying to look at the books out of the corner of my eye without him noticing.

Brian, however, comes closer and, with an internal sigh, I give up my search for now. "You missed class this morning," he states. "Were you sick?"

"I… I overslept for a bit and was… held up afterwards," I answer carefully. No need to explain quite what held me, right?

"Oh. Well, that can happen. I'm glad you are not unwell," replies Brian and shuffles his feet a little.

I give a non-committal half-smile. I mean, it's not like I can say that I'm also glad I'm not unwell, is it?

"Have you already started work on your essay?" Brian continues. "I'm writing mine on William S. Burroughs."

"Wasn't he the one who shot his wife and got away with it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Brian blinks. "Ah, but… but it was an accident, wasn't it? Burroughs said it was."

"He would, wouldn't he?" I point out, my other eyebrow joining the first one.

A beat of silence, before Brian awkwardly clears his throat. "Have you already picked a writer for your essay? If not, you might choose Kerouac. He and Burroughs were friends. We could do our research on the Beat Generation together."

Kerouac? Not effing likely! I mean, I admit that he wasn't too shoddy to look at as a young man, but twenty pages of _On The Road_ convinced me once and for all that his pretty face was his greatest asset. (And really, what can be expected from a man who looked towards James Joyce for inspiration?)

"No, sorry. I'm already writing about…" Quick, a name! "About… about… Edith Wharton." Which isn't the most creative pick, I'll readily admit that, but then, Kerouac really isn't either, is he?

Brian nods, not quite looking at me. "She is a good choice."

"Yes, I thought so," I agree. My eyes flit over to the row of books of their own accord.

"Would you like to copy my notes from today's class?" Brian asks suddenly. "We discussed Salinger."

Ha! Called it!

"That would great," I declare, bestowing a smile upon him for his offer.

Brian gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat. "Are you free Friday evening? We might meet up and you could copy the notes."

Or you could just give them to me now so I can run them through a photocopier real quick?

But no. Breathe, Rilla. No need to be mean.

"Sorry, I'm watching my sister's kids that night," I apologise, trying my utmost to be kind. (And sending a silent apology towards Jake and Izzie for yet again using them in a lie to get me out of an appointment. With how often I've invoked them lately to keep my friends from getting suspicious about how little I go out anymore, I'm starting to feel some irrational guilt towards them. Especially because Nia is already theorising that I'm on child minding duty so often lately because Joy and Dan are getting a divorce. Which I've yet to set her straight on, I'm afraid.)

Brian opens his mouth to reply (probably to suggest Saturday evening instead), but I am faster. "How about we grab some lunch in the cafeteria together next Monday and I copy down your notes then?"

He doesn't exactly look _ecstatic_ at my suggestion, but nods anyway. Which is good, because I can very probably rope Seraphina or Chelsea into joining us 'by coincidence'. Maybe that'll help him cotton on. (Otherwise, I might have to have a quiet word with him sometime soon.)

And, speaking of the devil, Chelsea choses just this moment to suddenly appear at my side (rather like an angel sent from up on high much more than a Beelzebub from down below).

"Here you are," she notes calmly.

"I'm sorry. I left you waiting," I realise, feeling some actual remorse, even though you _could_ argue that neither the phone call nor my little chat with Brian here, are actually my fault.

"I fought five vending machines, conquered one and ate two of these small bags of chips," Chelsea recounts with a smile. "After that, I thought I'd better go looking for you before two became four."

Convincingly argued.

Chelsea casts a pointed look at Brian, then looks back at me.

"This is Brian from my American lit class. Brian, Chelsea. She's also majoring in economics," I introduce.

For a moment, they look at each other, but both being on the shy side, neither has the courage to actually extend a hand in greeting, so they end up just nodding awkwardly at each other and quickly look elsewhere.

I take a breath. "Right. I'll see you at Kimmel on Monday, Brian. Does 1:30 work for you?"

Brian nods. "Uh, yes. Sure."

"Lovely. Good luck with Burroughs." I give him a cheery wave and turn back towards the bookcase, staring straight at the books' spines until I can hear Brian shuffling off.

"I have it here. The book," Chelsea informs me helpfully once Brian is out of earshot, holding up the very book I came here for in the first place.

I rub a hand across my face. "Sorry. I meant to come back sooner, but… well, you met Brian."

Chelsea nods understandingly. "Yes, I did. Is it William S. Burroughs he's doing research on?"

"So he said," I confirm, letting my gaze drift into the direction in which Brian disappeared. "And I wish him good luck either way, looking for material on Burroughs in the section for British Parliamentary Papers."

This, at least, draws a laugh from Chelsea, before she takes a step into direction of the stairs. "Come on, let's get back to work," she encourages. "I still have some of those small bags of chips down where our things are."

And who could possibly decline a bag of chips?

Thankfully, the hard-won book does help us out with the problem at hand, and a few further ones besides. We work for almost another hour (going through more than one bag of chips in the process), and when I finally desert Chelsea, I actually feel like I've understood quite a bit. Which is more than I could have said this morning, so I suppose that's progress.

The faculty club, which houses the restaurant I work for, is only a few streets away from Bobst Library, so even though I cut it a bit close, I just about manage to turn up in time for my shift. To my delight, I immediately spy Tracy by the doors leading to the kitchen.

"Blythe! Haven't seen you in a while," she greets me, pocketing her order pad and coming over to where I'm simultaneously trying to divest myself of my coat, put my bag in a locker, switch my heeled boots to trainers, and tie an apron around my waist.

"Yeah. I've been a bit busy with classes and everything," I lie and would have crossed my fingers but it's rendered a bit difficult by having my hands full with other things. (Just to be clear – I hate it, the lying. But, well… what else is there to do?)

Quickly, before she can press any further, I ask, "How are you?"

Ken came back from England with some advice about Tracy's case, apparently gleaned from Aunt Mary, and even phone numbers to places in New York that work with the charities his aunt supports and that Tracy could turn to. But while she listened to me carefully explain it, she has yet to show any kind of initiative of her own. It's a bit frustrating, but I guess it's never as easy as it looks like from the outside.

"Fine," Tracy answers with a smile that I hope to be genuine. "Working lots, but it's good. I've done a fair few catering events lately and they always pay good money."

In addition to the normal restaurant on the main floor, the faculty club also has rooms upstairs that they rent out for events, usually providing both food and staff as well. Individual tips are usually less forthcoming during private dinners, but there's usually a service charge paid by whoever is hosting the event. And with the club being nominally only open to faculty, staff and alumni of NYU, tips can be pretty hit and miss. If you're lucky, you have a former student who made some pretty money down on Wall Street and wants the world to know, but you're just as likely to get a room full of normal NYU staff, who are already shelling out so much on their meal that they skimp on the tips. Doing catering, you at least know what to expect.

"That's great. Done anything else lately? Something fun?" I ask, while finally managing to secure my apron. I'd like to ask how things are at home, but this is hardly the place.

"We saw a movie the other day," Tracy answers after a moment of thinking. " _The Roommate_ , about a girl whose college roommate turns out to be quite the lunatic."

The 'we', in this case, very probably includes her bastard of a husband (no way he lets her go to the cinema without him) and I feel a hot coil of anger in my stomach at the thought of him, but swallow the words that press to the surface. Ken's aunt said not to rush her, much as I really, _really_ want to.

"I had a pretty weird roommate myself during first year," I relate instead, making sure to keep my voice light. "She was no lunatic, but she had her heart set on helping me find Jesus. I mean, she was mostly quite sweet, but it was a bit creepy at times."

"Was she at least successful?" Tracy wonders.

"Eh… Not really?" I make a comical face to go along with the words, causing Tracy to laugh. (She's such a lovely person. I do _so_ want her to be happy!)

We don't get further than that though, because the doors to the dining room swing open in that very moment, revealing a disgruntled Bridget, another colleague of ours.

"If the two of you are done chatting, I wouldn't mind not doing all the work on my own," she snaps and glares at us over a tray of empty glasses.

I smile a sourly sweet smile back, but Tracy jumps into action immediately. "Yes, of course. Sorry, Bridget," she apologises. "We'll get to it right away."

"Well, hurry," is Bridget's only response as she disappears into the kitchen. (She's lovely to look at, Bridget is, but in a perpetual bad mood. She still gets pretty high tips though, which speaks volumes about the human race and its bias towards good looks.)

Tracy reaches out to squeeze my arm. "Talk later?"

I nod, even as my mind is already starting on some mental arithmetic, trying to figure out from where I'm supposed to take time to talk to Tracy without leaving Ken waiting for too long.

My kingdom for a Time-Turner!

But with neither a magical, time-travelling object nor a good idea forthcoming, I put off the problem for later, instead pocketing my own order pad and following Tracy into the dining room. (Just in time, too. As the door shuts behind me, I can just hear Bridget leave the kitchen. The last thing I need is to be hissed at by her again.)

As far as college eateries go, the restaurant is pretty nice to look at – bit country house in style, lots of wood, not too fancy – and the work, too, is preferable to working the counters at one of the dining halls, which is what I did during first year. Plus, you never get tips while handing out over-cooked pasta to under-funded students, and seeing as I haven't worked as much as I ought to these past two months, I can really use the money.

Thus, I square my shoulders, put on my very best smile and walk up to the first table, which is occupied by what I suspect are faculty members. "Good evening. Have you ordered already?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Lies' (written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, released by The Rolling Stones in 1978)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Congratulations! Three prizes sounds very impressive, so please imagine me applauding you from half a world away! And my commiseration on the complicatedness of wearing a Sari. I was dressed in a Kimono once while I was in Japan, and while I realise it's a totally different garment, I think they are similar in that they _look _easy to wear but actually involve a lot of complicated construction business. I know I just stood there and tried to breathe as little as possible ;). (Also, you beat this chapter with your review, so you aren't at all late. And anyway, if something is worth waiting for, it's lovely, long, chatty reviews!)  
I must admit that my initial interest in the Romanovs goes back to that animated movie about Anastasia in the 1990s. In my defence, I was still in primary school and didn't know any better. Still, not as impressive as being influenced by celebrated British historians ;). But I did start to read up on the real history of the Romanovs when I was old enough and I'd be lying if I claimed that my decision to go to Russia wasn't influenced by my interest in those Romanovs. Though it didn't hurt that all those palaces are very pretty to look at - and the Eremitage is a dream!  
I love your characterisation of Ken! (And yes, Di would approve as well.) He's really trying to be considerate and sincere, but he's also a man who hasn't heard the word No nearly often enough in his life. He very genuinely wants to be there with her, but he also doesn't really expect to be denied entry. Which is something he's going to have to work on, because if Rilla won't put a damper on all that confidence herself, I'm sure she's related to more than enough people who _will _! After all, no-one ever accused a Blythe of lacking opinions.  
Actually, I think Owen would be greatly amused at that introduction. Whereas Rilla, naturally, would be mortified. So while_ I _laughed, perhaps we should advise Ken to find some other words for when The Great Introduction rolls around ;).  
I absolutely adored my Nokia phone back in the day! So sturdy! (Not to mention very modern at the time...) I was a proficient Snake player, too. So simple, yet so effective. Ah, the nostalgia...  
Anne's pretty great about dealing with the... somewhat unusual situation Rilla has gotten herself into, isn't she? I based her on my own mother, who's also pretty great about a lot of things, especially when it comes to giving advice in a way that won't make stubborn children want to run the other way immediately. I mean, I needed to hear a lot of stuff my Mum had to say and Rilla needs to hear a lot of stuff Anne has to say, so that's that circle nicely closed.  
Dylan is just the gift that keeps on giving, really. I keep coming back to him and his petty phrases for titles (makes me realise that the Nobel Committee was onto something when they gave him the Literature Prize). As you have seen, we're making a detour to The Stones with this one, but I'll see what I can do for the next, re: your favourites!  
_


	15. Bad news on the doorstep

_New York City, USA  
March 2011_

 **Bad news on the doorstep**

"Miss Blythe? You can't enter your apartment right now."

Puzzled, I stare at the strange man in front of me, who is currently blocking the entrance to my Shoebox.

"And… may I ask why that is?" In my bafflement, I realise too late that he probably doesn't deserve politeness. I mean, who does he even think he _is_?

"We are installing several upgrades," comes the impatient answer.

"Upgrades," I repeat slowly.

The man nods curtly. "Security measures."

So this is what this is about.

"And you happen to be…?" I leave the question unfinished.

"I'm part of His Royal Highness's security detail," answers the man, doing nothing to veil his impatience at having to talk to me at all.

After a quick glance over my shoulder to check that none of my neighbours are nearby, I peer at him a little more closely. He _does_ look vaguely familiar. I've only ever gotten glimpses at Ken's MATH (martial arts-trained hitmen, that is), but I think I've seen this one before. If only I could…

"Sexy Eeyore!" I exclaim.

If possible, the man's expression darkens even more.

"You were dressed as Eeyore back on Halloween. I saw you through the windshield of the car," I clarify.

The man glares, but doesn't say anything. Which is really the clearest confirmation he could give.

"We will be finished tomorrow. We can book you a hotel room for the night," he informs me instead.

That's certainly enough to make me splutter with indignation, my delight at having recognised him immediately forgotten. "You… you can't just come and take over my flat like that! How did you even get _in_?"

"We drilled the lock," he answers as if that was quite obvious. He's not even looking at me!

I blink, rendered speechless for a moment. "That's… surely that counts as burglary?"

"Only if we were to take away your possessions," he answers in a way that is clearly condescending. "Which we won't."

Eh. Mighty glad.

I take several deep breaths. "Look, Mr… whatever you're called. I understand you mean well, but you can't just –"

"Of course we can," he interrupts me. "We have to guarantee the safety of His Royal Highness. We are merely undertaking measures to that effect. This week was deemed a suitable time for these works to take place on account of His Royal Highness's stay in the United Kingdom."

Not trusting my voice, I ball my left hand into a fist instead, burrowing my nails into the skin.

The man's eyes flicker down towards my fist for a moment. "His security has been much complicated by his many stays in this apartment. Since these look to continue for the foreseeable future, we need to take appropriate steps to ensure his safety."

Breathe, Rilla. Stay calm.

"I understand that. I am merely wondering whether it wouldn't have been possible to talk to me beforehand instead of breaking into my flat?" I can't keep a certain sarcasm from creeping into my words, but all in all, I'm quite proud of how reasonable I sound.

"Your permission is not deemed necessary when His Royal Highness's safety is in question," the man informs me dismissively.

And just like that, all attempts at being reasonable are out of the window.

"Not necessary?" I splutter. "I _live_ here. This… this is my _home_. You… you… I…" But the ability to form a coherent sentence has left me, in the light of such… impertinence.

The man purses his lips, obviously little impressed by my outburst.

I close my eyes for a long second. "Does Ken know about this?" I ask when I open them again.

" _His Royal Highness_ ," he begins, putting obvious emphasises on the title, "is not routinely burdened with the details of the security measures surrounding him."

So that's a No then. Which is _something_ , I suppose.

"These… 'security measures', what do they look like?" I ask, clamouring for calm.

"I am not authorised to provide you with details," the man lectures. "It could compromise the safety of His Royal Highness if you were given too much information."

Compromise the safety of…?

Does this man even _realise_ that I spend roughly every second night in the same bed as Ken, with a drawer full of kitchen knives no more than a few steps away? I mean, not that I _want_ him dead, but if I did, he'd be a goner for sure, not matter what Sexy Eeyore and friends do to my flat.

Which makes me wonder…

"No cameras. No listening devices either," I state, making my voice sound firm.

The man casts an impatient side-glance my way. "Your opinion in this matter is negligible. We are not reliant on your cooperation."

God, I _so_ want to hit him.

"You so sure about that?" I ask, raising a challenging eyebrow. "For one, I have a phone right here. Shall we call _His Royal Highness_ and ask him how he likes the idea of the lot of you watching videos of his girlfriend showering?"

Eeyore makes an attempt to speak, but I cut right across him. "And besides, you _do_ rely on my cooperation. Specifically, on my cooperation to keep living here. I could move out tomorrow, rendering all your work absolutely useless. How about I find myself a place to live in a college dorm? What would _that_ mean for your beloved security measures?"

He actually, physically, shudders at the thought.

"Yes," I state, more calmly now. "That's what I thought."

For a long moment, he considers me, obviously mulling over his options and my power on the matter. Then, making the sourest face I've ever seen a person make, he gives a curt nod. "I will walk you through it."

See? That wasn't so hard, was it?

But I bite my tongue in the interest of compromise and instead follow him into my home. _Finally_.

Once inside, the initial shock of what I see renders me momentarily speechless. My belongings have been pushed into the middle of the room, with at least half a dozen people mulling about the place, wielding tools of any kind and… are they installing new _windows_?

"These windows are blast and bullet resistant," Eeyore informs me. "So is the new door. Door and windows will have vastly superior locks as well."

I swallow heavily.

"Additionally, we are installing strategically placed panic buttons in several spaces around the apartment and –," but he does not get any further.

"Excuse me, Mr…" 'Mr Eeyore', I was going to say, but manage to contain the word in the nick of time. "Just… excuse me. All this… what you are doing here. These new windows and everything. Can it be removed again? Without, you know, it being too obvious that it was here in the first place?"

The question seems to confuse him, for he takes a moment or two to answer. "Why would anyone want to remove it again?"

"See, it's like this," I begin, "my landlord is pretty strict about alterations. If he finds out about this, he'll certainly withhold my deposit when I move out again."

Now, he looks utterly puzzled. "But it is an improvement of the apartment. These are state of the art security instalments. Anyone would consider themselves lucky to have them."

How to make it plain to this man that normal people have no need for blast resistant doors and panic buttons in the shower?

"I don't doubt that. But my landlord warned me not even to drill a hole into the wall if I ever want to see my deposit again. This… this is a bit more than just drilling a hole into a wall," I explain patiently, wincing slightly when one of the workers actually _does_ start to drill a hole into the wall in that very moment.

"We are ensuring that the apartment does not look any different from before," Eeyore assures and I suppose that's all I'm going to get.

"And no cameras?" I ask, feeling suddenly very, _very_ tired.

He shakes his head. "No cameras or listening devices. His Royal Highness has shown himself to be… not very receptive to the instalment of those."

Aha! So they already tried that, did they?

"Good." I take a deep breath. "Good."

Eeyore, however, speaks up again. "Naturally, you must refrain from keeping any of the windows open from now on."

I blink. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

"I'm afraid you have to," he counters.

Seriously, at this point, the only thing that keeps me from causing him physical pain is the knowledge that he could very probably kill me with his bare hands _and_ make it look like an accident.

"But my cat –," I protest.

He cuts me off. "Your cat will learn to live indoors. Having the cat run around outside is a security risk anyway."

George? A _security_ risk?

What is this guy _smoking_?

"Look, Mr… whatever. I accepted you breaking into my apartment, I accepted you handling my possessions, I accepted you basically rebuilding my home. I did and I promise to be good about it. But what I will not accept is anything that harms my cat. Being shut in this tiny space all day will harm him. It is, therefore, not an option." I am, it turns out, not so calm anymore.

He, meanwhile, looks very sourly once more. "There is no way to –"

"I don't care," I interrupt him. " _Find_ one. Otherwise, remember what I said about dorm living?"

(I don't think this man realises that it would actually be not _at all_ easy for me to suddenly get NYU to assign me a dorm room. But I'm not likely to set him straight.)

Judging from his expression, killing me with his bare hands and making it look like an accident would be his preferred way of dealing with this. He just about manages to control himself though and gives the stiffest of nods.

"Lovely," I reply, the fight going out of me with a breath. "I will sleep at a friend's place tonight and will be back tomorrow at three to collect my new keys. When I do, I expect my home to look just like it did before and I expect all of these people to be gone. And if I never have to see you again, I wouldn't mind that either."

Without waiting for a reply, I turn and stride through the door. (I _think_ I hear him mutter, "The feeling is mutual, Miss." But I'm not sure and anyway, don't want to dwell on it either.)

Leaving Mr Eeyore standing there, I almost run down the stairs, with my heart beating too quickly in my chest, in a desperate attempt to just get away from it all. I don't stop until I'm forced to, when I stumble into someone on the second-floor landing.

"Whoa, slowly there!" comes a voice.

It's only after I regained my footing and planted a firm hand on the banister that I look up to recognise my neighbour Everett, who's obviously coming up from downstairs. He lives two floors below me with his wife and two daughters, who look quite angelic, even though I'm suspecting the older one of being on the cusp of teenagerhood.

"Are you alright?" asks Everett with a smile.

I nod, force a smile of my own, even though there's still a strange buzzing in my ears. (Not poor Everett's fault though.) "Yes. Sorry for barrelling into you like that."

He shakes his head. "No matter." Then, eyeing me with polite curiosity, "Quite a bit going on up there on your floor. They've been working since this morning."

Ah, drat. I hadn't considered that renovations works like these wouldn't go unnoticed by the neighbours.

"Oh," I wave my free hand to buy time. "It's just… you know… a… a burst pipe. It's just a burst pipe." My hand on the barrister moves to cross two fingers.

Everett nods understandingly. "Ah, yes. It was probably put under too much strain back in January when the heating broke. Pipes don't like the cold. Then something must have happened recently that proved too much and it burst."

"Ehm, yes. It was probably something like that," I agree vaguely. "Now, I don't want to be rude, but I've kind of got to run."

"Sure, of course. Wouldn't want to keep you. Have a nice day!" Everett gives me a friendly smile, which I answer with a half-smile on my own as I quickly move past him to tackle the last sets of stairs.

Once on the ground floor, I carefully slip past Mrs Weisz's flat, slink out of the front door and, once on the street, turn to the left immediately, away from her window. I hate nothing more than having to hide from Mrs Weisz, but while Everett might have bought my improvised story, Mrs Weisz is too clever to believe that a burst pipe necessitates the instalment of a whole set of new windows.

I'm going to have to think of what to tell her. But that's a problem for another day.

For now, I walk with brisk steps until I'm out of sight of the house, before pausing and reaching for my phone. Quickly, my fingers select Nia's number and press 'call'.

She takes a couple of rings, but after the fifth or sixth, mercifully picks up.

"Rilla! How's my best traitor friend doing?"

I grimace slightly. "Yeah. I know. Sorry."

Nia laughs. "At least you _are_ sorry."

She has no idea _how_ sorry.

"Listen," I change tracks. "Can I crash at your place tonight?"

"Like old times?" she asks. "Sure, sounds like fun. I'll let Seraphina know to get the air mattress out."

There's a hot feeling in my stomach as gratefulness mixes with guilt. I haven't made as much time for my friends as I ought to have in the past months, yet here Nia is, offering me a place to stay, no questions asked.

"Thanks, that's… I really appreciate it." The lump in my throat makes it a little hard to speak.

Nia seems to pick up on it. "Anything happen?" she queries, sounding suddenly concerned.

I take a deep breath. "No. Just a burst pipe. Nothing major. It's just…"

"An awful pain anyway," Nia finishes understandingly.

"Yes," I breathe. "Yes it is."

Nia makes a thoughtful sound. "Ask me if I'm free this afternoon."

"Are you free this afternoon?"

"No. I have classes," she replies. Then, "Ask me if I'm up for some window shopping anyway."

"Are you up for some window shopping anyway?"

"You bet I am!" she exclaims cheerfully. "Meet you on Madison Avenue in an hour?"

The hot coil in my stomach disappears, to be replaces by a cool, calming feeling that I recognise as relief. "In front of Barneys?"

"Sounds good," agrees Nia. A beat, before she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and adds, "Don't tell Seraphina though. Window shopping is no fun with someone who can actually buy all that stuff."

"Kind of beats the purpose," I agree with a smile.

"Preach it!" laughs Nia. "Got to go. See you in an hour!"

"Yes. Bye." But by the time I get the words out, she has already hung up.

Feeling much uplifted by the phone call, I make my way to the Subway station to catch a train that'll take me to Manhattan. (I like living on Brooklyn. It feels more _real_ , somehow, than Manhattan does. But I will admit that there are days when the commute can be a bit of a bother.)

I'm still standing on the platform, waiting for my train, when I feel my phone vibrate. Hoping for a message from Ken, I quickly fish it out of my bag. (He's been better about keeping in touch during his current stay in England, but his last message came yesterday morning and the last time we talked was the day before that.) It's just Seraphina though and my heart thuds in disappointment when I see her name pop up. Still, I open the message.

 _Nia said you're staying at our place tonight. You wanna go out dancing or watch a movie?_

For a moment, I blink at my phone, trying to decide what I do want to do, until I realise that the decision is already dictated by circumstances.

 _Can't go out. Don't really have anything to wear with me._

It takes less than fifteen seconds for her answer to ping back.

 _We can lend you something._

True. It's not like we didn't swap clothes often enough when I still lived in the dorm.

Still… it's been ages since I went dancing with my friends and while it does sound like fun, I'm just not sure…

 _I'm pretty knackered. Maybe just make it a movie night?_

Ten seconds.

 _Sure. I'll get a movie. Pizza, too?_

The train takes just that moment to rattle into the station, so I rush to type a reply.

 _Pizza's great. See you tonight._

Boarding the train and finding myself a seat, I reflect that it's one of the great things about New York's Subway that you never have to wait long for a train to come along. Even more happily, New Yorkers abhor nothing more than having to make contact with a stranger while on the Subway, so everyone is very much left to their own devices. So while the ride to 5th Avenue Station isn't a short one, it's at least quiet. I don't even have to change trains, which is always welcome.

Finally coming up for air where Grand Army Plaza borders Central Park, I am immediately engulfed in the hustle and bustle that is forever Manhattan. Across the square, The Plaza Hotel is still an iconic sight, much as more modern buildings dwarf it these days, while a few steps in front of me, a no less iconic yellow taxi almost runs into one of the carriages offering tourist rides through Central Park and to my right, those self-same tourists form a line in front of a street vendor selling hot dogs. In short, just your average Manhattan day.

Crossing 5th Avenue, I walk between the buildings that turn 60th Street into something akin to a ravine until I reach the next intersection and turn left on Madison Avenue. After some more steps, I am in front the elegantly understated entrance of Barneys, but Nia is nowhere in sight yet. Given that I'm a good deal early, that's not too surprising though.

Deciding not to start on the window shopping without her (she'd notice), I walk past Calvin Klein with my head turned away, where I see another street vendor at the next corner. This one sells drinks and sweets and newspapers rather than hotdogs, and to while away some time, I idly peruse the headlines of the magazines on display.

 _People_ has Charlie Sheen in a hideous hat, holding some kids – probably his own –, while on the title page of _Cosmo_ , Leah Michelle gives quite some insight into her cleavage, right next to a topical announcement to 'The Sex Quiz' and the call to 'Get Naked!'. _Vogue_ features Lady Gaga in a pink wig that can only be a very cruel joke and Glamour promises '700 Instant Outfits & Ideas', though if that shirt they put on poor Diane Kruger is anything to go by, I'm not sure their advice can be trusted. On the other hand, _W_ dressed up Mila Kunis all dark and feathery in a way that is very _Black Swan_ of them and _Hello!_ has –

 _Hello!_ has my very own boyfriend on the cover. Together with a very striking brunette.

In some detached part of my mind, it registers that it's a great picture. They're both in eveningwear, him in one of those maddening tuxedos and her in a shimmering gold dress that pools around her body like water. He's leaned down to speak into her ear and she beams up at him, the light illuminating them just _so_.

With shaking fingers, I reach forward and gingerly pick up a copy. 'Finally… A Fair Lady for the Prince?' screams the headline and while I don't know about her being a lady, they look undeniably striking together. Cosy, too. _Familiar_.

Dimly, I'm aware of a part of my brain (the one responsible for self-preservation, probably) shouting at me to put the magazine down and run far away, but my fingers seem to have taken on a life of their own. They flip through the magazine until, once more, a large picture of Ken and the mystery brunette, both laughing this time, stops me in my tracks.

She is, it turns out, a lady. Or, Lady, I should say. Capital L. Lady Henrietta de Duras, daughter of the Earl of Feversham (whoever that is.)

My heart beating in my throat, I skim over the article, registering maybe every second word. As always with magazines like these, every second word turns out to be more than enough. Apparently, they attended the opening of an art gallery together, which is where the photographs got taken. A spectator confirms that they looked very close all evening, while an unnamed source reports that they go way back and hints strongly that Lady Henrietta would make a very fine Princess of Wales indeed. Her mother seems to be a friend of the Queen and she and her siblings grew up –

"Hey, you! Either buy it or put it down!"

It's the vendor, and when I raise my eyes from the page that shows both Ken and Lady Henrietta with flutes of champagne in their hands, I can see him glaring at me.

Mumbling an apology, I drop the magazine as if burned and retreat backwards, turning after a couple of steps and blindly walking along the street, only narrowly avoiding a delivery boy on a scooter who shouts an obscenity at me before roaring off.

I must have walked for three or four minutes before finally coming to a halt next to a little nook created by two buildings that may not offer privacy, but at least provides a place to stand without being barrelled over by busy people needing to be somewhere.

Stepping into the corner nook, my shaking fingers gather my phone from my back. It slips from my grasp two times, before I finally get a firm hold on it. Looking up, I consider whether someone might hear me talk, but people just rush by, not even looking at me.

Bless New Yorkers and their utter contempt for other people's business.

Taking a deep breath, I dial Ken's number and raise the phone to my ear.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me," I begin in a hushed voice, then pause for a second to gather my thoughts. "I know you're probably busy and I don't want to bother you, but would you much mind calling me back when you have a moment?"

Ideally, I should leave it at that and cut the call and wait for him to call back. I _should_. I know that. But despite my mind being very much aware of it, my mouth is still talking.

"Because, well, the thing is that one of your PPOs kind of took over my apartment today. Without asking, mind. Apparently, I'm getting blast proof windows installed and panic buttons, too. I was being informed that it's a great improvement, but… yeah, a heads-up would have been nice."

This, too, would be a good place to hang up. And I try to. Hang up, I mean. But my eyes flit over to where I can see the back of a street vendor's stall (another one, as if it makes a difference) and my lips keep moving of their own accord.

"Also, I've just seen some pretty cosy pictures of you and a Lady Henrietta. I don't remember you ever mentioning her before, but _Hello!_ has the pair of you halfway down the aisle already. Which, if it's true, I guess congratulations are in order. It's just that it would have been great to know this _before_ your PPO took my place apart. What I'm saying is, you might like to give _him_ some intel, even if it's all news to _me_."

There's a lump in my throat that makes speaking difficult and only now do I realise that my eyes are burning. Furiously, I blink away a tear threatening to fall.

"Look, I changed my mind. Maybe don't call. I… I'm not so sure it's such a great idea anymore. It's… I… I just don't know. I don't know."

Only now do I finally cut the call. I don't trust my voice to continue speaking without giving too much away.

For a minute or two, I just stand there in my little corner, phone still in hand, busy people passing me by, as I try and fail to bring order into my jumbled thoughts. But it's no use. It's all just raw.

Swallowing heavily, I look down at my phone. My knuckles are white from gripping it so tightly. And then, without consciously deciding to do it, I raise my other hand and type out a message to Seraphina.

 _I've changed my mind. Dancing sounds great!_

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'American Pie' (written by Don McLean, released by him in 1971)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Well, I'm not a benevolent writer-God, so I figured it was time to allow the world to start intruding on that little parallel reality Rilla and Ken have created for themselves. Rilla is very much living two lives right now and they don't mix very well. She's doing a lot to accommodate their relationship (even against better judgement), but in a way that's not sustainable for very much longer. It's definitely time for Ken to start pulling his weight beyond offering sweet words and take-outs!  
I'm totally Chelseas as well, by the way. Maybe a bossier version of her. I certainly wasn't as understanding of members of my study group disappearing for greener pastures half-way through ;)._  
 _Brian's mainly awkward. He thinks that doing a project on a drug-fuelled possible murderer makes him 'cool' and he definitely reads to much into Rilla's vague semi-politeness. I'd say he's probably even more inept than poor Roy was, and that's saying something!_  
 _Ah, Mrs Lynde's Quilt of Chastity! I kind of imagine it coming off the moment that bed is used for anything more than movie watching and snuggling. I also think Rilla does this deliberately. Having the quilt on the bed during less innocent moments would make her feel suitably awkward ;).  
Tracy, like so many people in a similar situation, can only help herself. Ken can offer advice, Aunt Mary can help out with phone numbers (remotely) and Rilla can make sure that it all reaches Tracy, but at a certain point, outside support can only get you so far. The person has to make the first step (which is supremely frustrating for someone like Rilla, who isn't altogether very patient). And while I wasn't totally sure what to do with Tracy when she first appeared in this story, I have a small plot planned for her that won't always be an easy one, I think. _  
_As for hating Ken... how did this chapter do? ;)_

 _To wow:  
I don't know whether you've read this far already, but if you do continue reading, you should ultimately see this, so I'm writing it anyway ;).  
First of all, I'm glad you found my story and decided to read it, and also very grateful for your kind words. I have some experience writing AU stories, but a modern setting is actually quite far out of my comfort zone. It's been a long time since I wrote a story _not _set firmly in the past. This one was a bit of an experiment to me, but it's been fun to write and I'm really happy that readers seem to be enjoying it as well.  
I'm actually having a lot of fun with the family, transferring them into the 21st century and shaking things up a bit. Writing Joy has long been a goal of mine and with most of the other tweaks, like making Shirley the youngest child and having Gilbert brought up by Marilla and having Anne not be an orphan, I thought it would be interesting to change it up a little. Not too much so, but enough that it offers me new opportunities to play with. Mrs Weisz, meanwhile, just crept in there all on her own.  
Actually, yes, Rilla did follow Joy to New York. Joy was going there because of Dan's work and Rilla, having no other college she preferred, went along. (And I'm sure she didn't mind the thought of living in _New York _either.) As for her finances, you're certainly right to ask this. She's spending an awful lot of money by studying there! But I promise we'll get to the money aspect of this. It's actually a future plot point.  
Wrapping this up, I hope you will continue to read and enjoy the story and, if you'd like to, look forward to hearing from you again :).  
_


	16. To say 'I love you' right out loud

_New York City, USA  
March 2011_

 **To say 'I love you' right out loud**

"You're mad at me."

Whatever gave him _that_ idea?

But I bite my tongue, instead moving my head in a way that is neither confirmation nor denial.

Ken shuffles his feet slightly. I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the doorframe.

"Can I come in?" he asks carefully.

Pursing my lips, I think this over for a moment.

"You can't just turn up unannounced on my doorstep at any given time and expect to be invited inside," I inform him.

"I tried to call you," he immediately points out.

He did. I didn't pick up.

"I told you not to," I remind.

He takes a deep breath. "I'm not allowed to call and I'm not allowed to come. What else will you have me do? Send smoke signals?"

Funny.

(Not.)

"You could have texted," I argue.

"Would you have answered?" he shoots back.

Hm. Maybe not.

But he's here now and I think that's the front door I hear being closed downstairs, so I take a reluctant step backwards, allowing him to follow me into the flat and shut the door behind him.

He sets his helmet down before facing me, and for a moment, we just stand across from each other. I have my head turned to the side, but I can feel his eyes on me.

"You're mad." It's not even a question.

I turn to look at him. "Why would I be mad? I have bullet proof windows and my door has more locks than sodding Alcatraz. What girl doesn't dream of that?"

Ken pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Could we talk about this seriously? Without the sarcasm?"

Oh? Because the smoke signals were meant sincerely, were they?

"Sure." I fold my arms across my chest. "Let's talk."

For a moment, I see a sliver of annoyance pass over his face, but really, _I'm_ the annoyed one here! Who does he even think he is?

"You're mad because security took over your apartment like that," he states, sounding quite reasonable.

There's another sarcastic comment just on the tip of my tongue, but I gulp it down with effort. Instead, I nod. "Yes. I _am_ mad they did that."

"Which you have every right to be," he acknowledges.

So he realises that, yes?

"It was insensitive and uncalled for to force you out of your home and install all these measures without your permission," Ken continues. "They were wrong in doing so and I apologise for it. Had I known in advance, please be certain that I would have prevented it."

Well. I already did suspect that they hadn't asked his permission either.

I incline my head slightly to concede the point. "A warning would have been nice. I understand the need for security, but to have them basically break in…" I trail off.

Ken blinks. "What do you mean, 'break in'?" He sounds genuinely confused.

"They drilled open the lock, didn't they? While I had classes," I explain, not quite sure how to take his confusion.

He curses softly. "I didn't know that. I'm sorry. _God_! That was…"

But words seem to have left him, for he leaves the sentence unfinished, instead staring into space for several seconds, a deep frown on his forehead.

I just wait, unfolding my arms and folding them back into place.

With a sigh, Ken comes back to life. "Looks like some more phone calls are in order."

"Some more?" I question.

He shrugs. "I made some calls after I heard your voice message and confirmed what happened, though they conveniently kept the bit about the lock drilling from me. Even without that information I already had the head of Royal and Specialist Protection over to read him the riot act, but knowing what I know now, I might have to have a word with the Met Commissioner himself."

I'm sure this would sound more impressive of I knew who or what a 'Met Commissioner' was.

Ken seems to have noticed, for he explains, "The head of London police, basically. The Met is the largest police force we have and incorporates our Protection Command. The Commissioner is considered the highest-ranking police officer in the country."

"And you can just order him to speak to you so you can snap at him? The top police officer in England?" I ask, not doing much to mask my scepticism.

He smiles faintly, but it's resigned, more than anything. "He's a civil servant. There are a limited number of those who I _can't_ order around and snap at, especially if their underlings messed up."

Of course. Just another part of his life I couldn't possibly fathom.

"I also had Pilkington recalled and put to duty guarding Sandringham," Ken adds as an afterthought, his tone leaving little doubt that 'guarding Sandringham' is the PPO's equivalent of the naughty step.

"By Pilkington, you mean Mr Eeyore?" I ask, frowning slightly.

"Mr Eeyore?" Ken repeats, sounding more than a little surprised, though I also see one corner of his mouth edge upwards in a smile.

"The man who lead the works here. He wore a Sexy Eeyore costume back on Halloween," I explain, keeping my own expression carefully level.

Ken laughs softly. "Yes, that was a supremely bad costume, wasn't it?"

He looks towards me for conformation, but when he sees my face, the laugh slips from his lips.

"You're still mad," he realises.

I shrug. Then nod.

"Because of Tatty," he adds.

Which is at least good enough to draw a reaction from me, if one of incredulity. " _Tatty_?"

"The woman I was photographed with. We call her Tatty," he answers.

 _We call her Tatty._

But _of course_ they do.

"That's not a name," I point out. "And if it is, it's not a very nice one."

Ken raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. "We've always called her that, ever since I can remember. She's really Henrietta, but that's too long for everyday use, don't you think?"

Truth to be told, I don't really have an opinion either way. They could be calling her Hephzibah, for all I care.

"So… you two go way back, you and _Tatty_?" I ask instead, keeping my voice conversational on the surface, but feeling anything but.

To his credit, Ken picks up on it immediately. "Our families are close. She's always been around in some way or another."

Do I even want to know what 'or another' entails?

"You sure looked cosy together in that magazine," I remark archly, raising both eyebrows to emphasize my point.

Ken sighs. "I understand how those pictures might have looked like to you and I admit the text made implications that it shouldn't have. You mustn't read anything into it though. Best just to ignore it. It's what I do."

He couldn't have just ignored _Tatty_ , could he?

"That's easy for you to say! You weren't the one having to explain those pictures to your mother!" I argue.

Because of course Mum called the day after I discovered that magazine. And of course I tried to laugh it off (no easy thing to do when your head feels like it might burst from the hangover) and of course she did not believe a word of what I said. She's no fool. She totally knows I've been avoiding her in general and the subject of Ken in particular for a good two months now.

"Your mother," Ken intones carefully. His features are schooled into an expression that I can hardly read.

"Yes. I told her. I had to tell _someone_ ," I reply, knowing fully well how defensive I sound. "And then I had to come up with an explanation why the people at _Hello!_ have you close to proposing to another woman."

Ken makes an impatient hand movement. "Because the people at _Hello!_ are morons."

"Maybe. But that doesn't change the facts." Almost unconsciously, I move my arms so that instead of folded in front of my chest, I am now hugging them to myself.

"What _facts_?" he asks and for the first time, I see his composure slip. "There are no facts. I promise you this is nothing. Tatty is a friend, nothing more."

"And yet, she gets to go to gallery openings with you, while I remain hidden like your dirty little secret!" The words are out before I knew I was going to say them. Maybe even before I knew I was even thinking them.

Ken frowns. "This is nonsense, Rilla. You are no dirty anything."

Funny. It still feels like that most of the time.

"But I'm a secret?" I ask, quietly now, because I don't trust my voice anymore.

He doesn't reply.

"I am." I swallow heavily. "I _am_ a secret."

"It sounds bad the way you say it," he replies gruffly.

My mouth twists into a smile that isn't really a smile. "Call it whatever you want. These _are_ the facts. Semantics won't change them."

For a long moment, Ken just looks at me. "This is what this is about, isn't it? Why you're really mad. This isn't about your apartment or about those pictures."

"I'm not mad," I counter. "I'm not _mad_."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters.

I wait for a snippy answer to cross my lips, but there is none. It all just feels strangely hollow.

"I'm not mad," I repeat and find that I mean it. "I'm just… horribly tired."

And I am. Tired. I've been tired for weeks, running on nothing but nervous energy and fear of being found out.

"Tired of what? This? Me?" Ken asks and I have to silently commend him for how calmly he says it.

"You, no. This… yes, maybe." I shake my head slightly. "It's all… it's hard. All this secrecy. I'm _lying_ , Ken. Constantly. Sometimes, it feels like this is all I do. To my family, to my friends, even to my three-year-old niece! I have to hide an entire part of my life from them and yes, it feels awful. I hate all the lies, and I hate how afraid I am that one day, I'll slip up and it'll all just come crashing down."

Ken nods slowly. "I understand. I know it's not easy."

"But _do_ you?" My voice, far from being calm, rises as I speak. "For you, this is normal. You've done it all your life."

"Just because I'm used to it, doesn't mean I don't dislike it," Ken remarks, but there's no challenge in his words. "I realise this isn't easy for you, but you must believe me that keeping this quiet is the best way."

"It doesn't feel very good sometimes," I whisper, feeling suddenly strangely strangled.

There's a tear, unbidden, hanging in the corner of my right eye. I wipe it away quickly, but not before Ken has seen. As if out of instinct, he reaches out a hand for me, but drops it when I shift backwards the slightest bit.

"I tell my friends I'm with my sister and her children. I tell my sister I'm with my friends. To the children, I am only ever apologising anymore," I recount quietly "I tell my father that there's nothing much going on in my life, even though that couldn't be further from the truth. I tell my mother that everything is _just dandy_ , when it's starting to feel anything but. And my siblings, I just don't tell anything anymore."

For a long moment, Ken just looks at me. Then – "Alright. Tell them the truth."

Wait.

What was that?

Startled, I open my mouth to speak. But no words will come.

"I never asked you to keep this from everyone in your life," Ken elaborates. "I mean, there'll always be an element of subterfuge involved, because secrecy is the price we pay for privacy. But that doesn't mean you can't tell anyone. You already told your mother, didn't you? That's fine. Tell your sisters, too, or your father. Maybe even a friend or two, if you're absolutely sure you can trust them."

Well… this is not what I expected.

I mean, he's right, I guess. He never did tell me to keep this a secret. But on the other hand, he's always making sure that no-one finds out about us, what with the ever-changing cars and the motorcycle helmet and everything. I guess I just assumed…

"Don't get me wrong. I'm still asking you to keep it very quiet," he adds after a moment of thought. "You shouldn't have to lie to people close to you, but it is still… of vital importance that the circle of people in the know stays very small and is limited to those absolutely trustworthy. Maybe stick with just telling your family for the time being?"

"Does _your_ family know? About us?" I blurt out. And while I could claim that the question was spontaneous, let us be honest – I've been wondering that for weeks.

Ken looks thoughtful for a moment. "I didn't specifically tell them anything, but they probably suspect there is someone in my life." A pause. "Besides, security knows about you and so does my staff – if this does get out, they need to be prepared – so there's no way my parents' head staff _don't_ know. And if they know, so does my father."

What weird world is this, in which he tells his staff but not his parents?

Unless…

I wrap my arms tighter around myself.

"Can I ask you something?"

He inclines his head slightly and gives me an encouraging smile. "Sure, go ahead."

"What would happen, if someone found out about us? Someone we don't want to find out, I mean." I am, I have to admit, still a bit hazy on who that 'someone' might be. Press, maybe?

The smile turns from encouraging to wry. "Everything would change overnight. And it can't ever be undone."

Hm… that's not exactly very specific, is it?

"And that would be bad?" I clarify, trying to get closer to the core of the matter. His need for privacy is so intent that I never questioned it before, and I still don't, just… I'd like to understand this better, I think.

Ken pushes a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed in thought. "You have to understand that people are interested in my life. And by extension, in the lives of those surrounding me. If the press got wind of what you mean to me… they'd find you and they'd try to find out everything about you. They aren't known to be squeamish about their methods either."

I nod slowly. "And that would be bad."

"Look, I'm saying this with the utmost respect for you, but you can't imagine what it's like. No-one can," he explains, and it's not so much the words as his tender gaze that tells me he's sincere. "I've had more than one girlfriend leave because they decided they couldn't deal with the intrusion into their lives. And that's despite some of them being more or less used to a certain level of public interest. The pressure is just… it's a lot."

"So you keep me hidden," I reply slowly.

A small smile appears on his face. "Ah, but 'hidden' is a strong word. Last time I checked, I hadn't locked you in a high tower and thrown away the key. Your hair might be long, but not _that_ long."

He takes a step forward and reaches out to lightly run a hand through my hair. This time, I let him.

"Are there dragons involved?" I want to know, eyeing him speculatively. "I might not mind the tower if it comes with a dragon attached."

A grin replaces his smile. "No way you're getting control over a dragon!"

I _hmpf_ in protest, but he just laughs, drawing me closer. I, too, feel my body relaxing. This, here, feels more like us. We're better at joking than thrashing out all the weighty matters.

Absent-mindedly I raise a hand to straighten his coat lapel – only then realising that he is, in fact, still wearing it.

"You should take this off," I suggest, tugging at the lapel.

Looking up, I can see the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "Just the coat?" he quips.

Rolling my eyes, I nod. "Yes. Just the coat."

For as much as I prefer this light, joking version of us, there are still questions left unanswered. Questions that I think I need answers to.

Silently, I watch Ken take off his coat and unwrap his scarf, hanging both from their accustomated spot at the back of the door. When he's done, he reaches out a hand for me, pulling me towards him when I take it.

"Are you still mad?" he asks into my hair.

Sighing quietly, I lay my head against his shoulder. "I'm not mad. I told you I'm not. I just didn't know what to make of all this. The renovation works, those pictures…"

"If you want to, I can get Tatty on the phone. She can tell you there's really nothing going on," Ken offers. "And while we're at it, I could also call the Met Commissioner and make him apologise for what they did with your flat. Would that help?"

The latter bit is said in a lighter tone, suggesting that he's halfway joking, but I latch onto the first part anyway. "So Tatty knows I exist?"

Ken shakes his head. "No. But if I called her to confirm that she and I are not engaged without telling her your name, she'd be not much the wiser, would she? Besides, our families go way back. She knows better than to prattle."

Good. Somehow, I didn't like the idea of this laughing and champagne-quaffing Lady Tatty in her expensive dress knowing about me.

"You don't have to call anyone. If you say that Tatty is a friend, I believe you." At least I'm reasonably sure I do. "It's just a bit weird that she can accompany you to events where there are photographers milling about, while you and I never ever leave this place."

"It's not exactly the same," Ken answers with a shrug. "The yellow press has been trying to marry Tatty and me off ever since we were legally old enough. She's not the only one I've been wrongly linked to, but they like coming back to her. It's no truer now than it was then, but it's a reliable story they can pull out now and again. They don't really _believe_ it though, not anymore. All reputable reporters know she's really just a friend, which is why in between those stories, they leave her alone. She never gets the attention any of my ex-girlfriends did."

"Hmh," I make. "I understand that. I still sometimes wonder…"

But my thoughts won't form into words, so I trail off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"What are you wondering?" Ken encourages, nuzzling his nose into my hair for a moment and making me smile.

"Whether, towers and dragons aside, it's still not true to say that we are hiding after all," I try to explain. "What I mean is… it feels a little surreal, you and me in this place. Like it's its own kind of world, existing parallel to the real one out there. I'm not doing a good job explaining this, but I wonder whether, out there in the real world, we could even endure. Or whether we really only exist in this place here."

A moment passes as Ken thinks over my words. "You want us to go out. Go to places," he remarks slowly.

I let go of a breath I was holding. "Not for the sake of going out, but… yes, in a way. I'd like us to be more normal, I think."

Ken leans backwards a little, forcing me to look up at him. "You do understand that's not possible?"

There's sympathy in his voice, but also firmness. This is one thing he won't be swayed on. Maybe because his normal is ever so different from my own.

I nod silently and there must have been something showing on my face, for Ken leans forward to give me a soft, closed-mouthed kiss. "And apart from everything else, I must say I like it here. Here, with you, I never have to be _on_. I can just _be_."

Blinking once, twice, I try to process his words. Never had I thought he actually _likes_ spending time in my crappy little apartment.

"This is normal for me," he adds. "Normal in a way I never really get to be anywhere else. Certainly not back in the UK."

"Is that why you hardly ever call when you're back there?" The moment the words are out, I bite my tongue, but it's not use. I can't call them back anymore.

But the accusation doesn't even surprise him. He just sighs, resigned, and draws me a little closer. "My life over there is… very different from my life here. Here, I have that UN job, but it's mostly office work. I'm not on display. When I'm back home, however, it's completely different. There seem to be the belief making the rounds that with how little I'm available for royal duties, the time I have must be used to perfection. Some days, I hardly get a break between engagements."

Could it be this easy? That he simply doesn't have _time_ to call?

"The only time I have for myself is early in the morning, but that's the middle of the night for you. I wouldn't want to disturb you when you sleep," he adds.

Part of me wants to tell him that _I_ wouldn't mind having my sleep disturbed by his calls, but this isn't really the problem at heart here. Because it's not only how little he calls and texts when in England. It's how the tone of his messages, spoken and written, changes as well.

"That is sweet of you. It's just… even when we're talking or messaging while you're in England, I have a feeling that it's… different. Different from when we're together," I remark, choosing my words with caution.

I can feel Ken nod. "Because I can hardly ever be sure whether I'm on my own. My core team knows about you, because if this does get out, they need to be able to handle it immediately. But there's usually also staff around who don't know and who I don't want to know. Generally, they're trustworthy, but me having a new girlfriend is quite the story. I could imagine some papers would pay a pretty sum for that exclusive and I could imagine some people might be tempted."

But my brain didn't really register anything he said after 'new girlfriend'.

"So I am that?" asks my mouth, always quick to speak without due thought. "Your girlfriend?"

Instead of answering immediately, Ken takes a moment to take a step backwards. Head inclined to the side, he looks at me quizzically. "Of course you are. What else would you call this?"

Feeling on the defensive and also cold without his embrace, I fold my arms. "I don't know. You never said I was. Your girlfriend, I mean."

"I didn't know it needed telling," he replies slowly, seemingly quite nonplussed still. "I mean, I realise the actual _dates_ are tricky, but otherwise, I thought it quite evident that we are dating. I don't usually spend the majority of my free time and almost every night with a woman I'm not dating."

The way he says it, it sounds quite obvious. So much so that I feel almost foolish for doubting it.

"What would you call us? Because if this is some kind of friends with benefits thing to you…" He lets the sentence hang, unfinished.

I shake my head. "No. No. It isn't. I just didn't know… Look, this might be all clear to you, but for me there's that element of…" Frowning angrily, I clamour for the right words. "It's just that I'm only me and you are –"

"Only me as well," Ken finishes for me. His expression, now, is serious. "I know it's a stretch to call my life or my family or my position normal, but take that away and I'm just me as well. And with you, I've been _me_ much more than in a very long time."

That… I mean, there's not much wiggle room left, is there? He's being quite clear, isn't he?

Taking a step towards me again, Ken raises a hand to brush some hair from my face. "I should probably have told you this sooner instead of expecting both of us just to miraculously be on the page."

"Or I could have asked," I sigh. To think that I spend weeks trying to figure this out, all the while putting off an ever more curious Mum, when it could have been so _easy_.

"In conclusion, we both should have talked more," Ken summarises. "Let's do it from now on, alright?"

I nod. "Yes. Let's." My head feels strangely light.

He leans down to peck my lips. When he straightens again, there's an almost roguish gleam in his eyes and I can feel the atmosphere shift. "If I told you I love you now, would that look like I was just trying to get you into bed?"

A laugh bubbles up within me of its own volition. "If it worked, would you even really care?"

Cocking his head to the side, he pretends to consider my question, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he tries to suppress his own laugh. "You know what… no, not really."

Says it and wraps both arms around my waist, picking me up and carrying me over to the bed, not swayed either by my surprised shriek nor my hand hitting his shoulder.

Not I really mean it, of course. Because, what can I say? If telling me he loved me was a ploy to get me into bed… well, it's working just fine, isn't it?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Both Sides, Now' (written by Joni Mitchell, released by her in 1969)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Sometimes, it's real work trying to find a good title, but last chapter's came together very nicely. The most important thing is that the line itself fits the chapter, but ideally, the corresponding song works as well. And if it's a song I truly like, that ticks all boxes. I'm thinking_ this _chapter's song might be a bit melancholy for it, but it ticks box one and three at least ;).  
What can I say? Sexy Eeyore was too good to pass up ;). Any more of these ideas, lob them my way, please. It's fun, including them into the story proper. And yes, 'smarmy' is absolutely right for him, because you just know that, no matter how rude he is to Rilla, he also regularly sucks up to Ken. But he got his just payback, undoing all his progress in becoming at least a low-ranking member of HRH's security team, and instead being forced to guard an empty castle in rainy Norfolk. It's Karma alright.  
I don't know whether I've said it before, but something that always struck me as curious about RoI is Rilla's complete lack of friends. There's early mention of some girls at the party, there's some JRC members popping up at times and there's Miranda Prior, but none of them clocks as a true friend in my eyes. Even Miss Oliver, supposed friends, disappears for great stretches of the novel. And Rilla isn't even close to her siblings either, which leads to Susan character we see most of next to Rilla herself. I find that a curious narrative decision, hence why I made a point to give Rilla good friends here. She'll need them to, as part of her support network, and because she'll find that making friends was a whole lot easier before everyone knew her face.  
Oh, we'll get to tackle past relationships! It's one of the scenes I've had in my head for quite a while and it's going to be glorious fun! (Not for Rilla and Ken, but hey... who cares, so long as I'm having fun, right?)  
So... I'm curious. Did Ken rise to the occasion? What do you think? :)  
_


	17. There's lots that I could say

_New York City, USA  
March 2011_

 **There's lots that I could say**

"You know, I keep thinking that one day, I will get used to this abomination you call 'coffee', but then I drink it again and find that it tastes as revolting as ever," Ken states from where he's leaning against the kitchen counter, pensively turning his coffee cup in his hands.

"It's supposed to wake you up," I answer with a shrug. "It does that at a reasonable price. Taste is secondary."

The look he casts my way is decidedly dubious, making me smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see George jump up on the bed beside me and start to knead the blanket with gusto. When I reach out a hand to stroke his head, his hitherto soft purring immediately intensifies.

"You might let me bring you a proper coffee machine," Ken suggests, grimacing slightly as he swallows a mouthful of instant coffee. "For _my_ use, if not for yours."

George rubs his head against my fingers and I move them slightly to better scratch his ears. Humming in thought at Ken's suggestion, I deliberately take a moment to answer. "Hmm… no, I don't think so."

"You're just saying that to be contrary, aren't you?" he asks with a laugh.

"Well, Marilla _is_ said to derive from Mary," I answer modestly. "It's all in the name, really."

He raises an eyebrow, but his eyes twinkle in amusement. "Also have a little lamb, do you? Or a black sheep, even?"

Scrunching up my nose, I shake my head firmly. "No, and I am indignant at the suggestion. Sheep smell. We don't like sheep, do we, Georgie?"

George purrs in agreement.

Ken, watching us over his coffee cup, shakes his head slightly, but his lips are raised in a smile. I grin up at him and his smile widens. Putting down his cup on the kitchen counter, he comes over to where George and I are curled up on the bed and sits down on the edge of it, careful to keep his already shod feet firmly on the ground.

For a second or two, he studies my face and just when I start to squirm slightly, he raises a hand to tap my nose and announces, "Beloved."

I blink. "Come again?"

"Mary. It means 'beloved', I think. Or else, just 'love'," he elaborates.

"Well… I guess I'm going to have to take your word for it," I reply slowly, not quite sure where he's going with this.

He, however, first takes another moment just to look at me, causing me to shift slightly on the bed. (Which, in turn, dislodges George, who has just mastered a very acrobatic pose in an attempt to groom his hindquarters. Unsurprisingly, he responds to such rough treatment with his most withering of glances.)

"I don't want to get all soppy about this," Ken finally states, his expression now serious, "but since we've had our share of misunderstandings recently, I also want it to be clear. I meant what I said last night. About loving you."

Evidently, the socially accepted response to this would be 'I love you, too', but somehow, I instead find my lips forming the words, "Not just a ploy to get into my bed, then?"

"No." Ken shakes his head. "I mean, it's not really like I ever needed a ploy to achieve that either, is it?" The seriousness is gone from his features, to be replaced with an expression that can only be called teasing.

When I give him my haughtiest of looks in response ( _almost_ haughty enough to rival George), he just laughs, reaching out to cradle my face with one hand and giving me a kiss. A kiss that, when I curl my fingers into the collar of his shirt, turns quite a bit more intense than he probably intended. Still, it's not like he's complai–

"Hey!" Abruptly, Ken draws backwards.

A bit dazedly, I blink at him, needing just a second too long to realise what fostered his protest.

George, apparently _done_ with being ignored, has deserted his grooming spot, sitting instead very close to both of us, one paw raised and a single claw lodged into the sleeve of Ken's shirt. When I raise an eyebrow at him, he merely inclines his head slightly to the side, giving me a long blink, the very picture of righteousness.

Ken, meanwhile, looks from the claw to George to me and back to the claw. "Help?" he asks, sounding a little lost as how to deal with the situation.

Deftly, I reach forward to get hold of the paw and work the claw out of Ken's shirt, ignoring both George's wiggling and his protesting meow. The moment I release the paw, he turns his back, jumping off the bed and stalking over to the window, throwing me a hiss over his shoulder for good measure.

"The original Rum Tum Tugger," I declare affectionately as I watch him exit through the specially secured cat flap that Eeyore installed for him after my protest.

 _For he will do as he do do_ , indeed.

"Like in the musical?" Ken asks. "I took Ted and Pers to see the final West End performance back in… 2001 or 2002?"

"Like in the T. S. Eliot poem," I correct. "You don't really think George would ever accept being associated with humans dressed as singing cats in _tights_ , do you?"

Laughing, he shakes his head. "No, not really. My bad."

"Oh, it's alright. I love you anyway." Because suddenly, the words are the easiest in the world to say.

My reward is a most dazzling smile, followed shortly by a kiss that is soft and sweet and ever so loving.

"I'm certainly glad we're on the same page on _this_ ," Ken remarks as he brushes some hair off my face.

"So am I," I agree, because really, I _am_. Very much so.

"Good. And do we also agree that you'll be telling your sisters today? About the two of us?" he adds with a nod towards my laptop, sitting next to my legs and waiting for our weekly Skype call. (Ken, of course, knows all about these. Mindful of how my skipping them would make my sisters suspicious, I've stuck to them all these months – for the most part. Still, Ken knows enough to be expected to be turfed out for an hour or two every Sunday morning.)

Letting my own gaze drift towards the still silent laptop, I feel a strange reluctance rise within me. "Ah, you know…" I begin, trying to stall, as I attempt to figure out whether I do, in fact, agree with him.

"No," he answers, looking somewhat curious. "I don't know. Tell me?" While he speaks, he laces our fingers together carefully.

I blow out a long breath, my free hand rising to twist the circle charm of my necklace. "I don't _have_ to tell them, I guess. I mean, I dislike the lying, but I also totally see your point about needing this to stay secret. I can go a while longer while keeping it quiet. There's no use rushing it, is there?"

He frowns, obviously confused. (Can't say I blame him.) "But no use delaying it either," he points out. "And there's no need to keep our relationship from your sisters either. I mean, it's not exactly shouting it from the rooftops, so I think we'll be fine. Or are you saying we can't trust them?"

Quickly, I shake my head. "No, that's not it. If I ask them to keep mum about it, they will."

"Well, that sounds good, doesn't it?" he asks with a shrug. "So, tell them. I don't mind. I heard you last night and I understand that it's important for you to be honest with your family."

"Not _that_ important," I immediately respond. "For us, I can keep it to myself. I have Mum to talk to, don't I?"

Ken leans forward a little to study my face. "We're good. You say your sisters are trustworthy, so there's no reason not to tell them. I genuinely and very sincerely think you should go for it. Unless… unless you have another reason for not wanting to tell them about us?" The last of which is accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

Feeling frustrated, I purse my lips and rock backwards slightly. "No reason. But you're saying it like it's _easy_."

"What is?" he asks, still obviously fairly nonplussed

"It _isn't_. That's the whole point," I clarify. "I mean, how am I even supposed to tell them? 'Good to catch up and by the way, have I told you about how I am dating the future King of sodding _England_?' They'd think I raided Shirley's secret stash of pot!"

Then, realising what I just said, I quickly add, "It's recreational. Or so he says, anyway."

Ken, however, just shrugs. "I'm not judging. But as to that other question… if I weren't who am I, would you already have told your sisters?"

"Weeks ago," I confirm, if somewhat reluctantly.

"And you feel uncomfortable about lying to them?" His gaze, now, is inquiring in a way that makes me raise my shoulders slightly.

"Yes. I guess so," I admit anyway.

Ken nods slowly. "In that case, how about we –"

He gets no further though, for in that exact moment, my laptop springs to life, announcing an incoming Skype call. I, feeling somewhat relieved at having this particular conversation cut short, quickly give him an apologetic smile and reach over the accept the call.

Thing is, it's not like I want to continue this charade. But much as I tried, I haven't yet come up with a way of saying 'I'm dating a prince', without it sounding like I am completely off my rocker. I doubt I'm going to be having a brainwave during this particular call.

Not looking at Ken, I stretch out my legs in front of me and balance the laptop on my knees. On the screen, I can see a somewhat tired looking Di next to a very upbeat Joy. Nan's nowhere to be seen yet.

"I wish you the loveliest of mornings, littlest sister," Joy greets me cheerfully. Di merely yawns heartily.

I open my mouth to reply, but another voice beats me to it.

Ken's voice.

"That'd be my cue then," he declares and gets up from the bed, only to briefly bend down again to drop a kiss on my shoulder, exposed by the baggy sweatshirt I'm wearing.

"See you later?" he adds, but gives me no time to reply, instead turning to look directly at the camera and nod politely at my sisters. "Good morning."

Says it and straightens again, crossing the apartment in large steps, grabbing coat and helmet as he passes, and slipping through the door without so much as a backwards glance. All in all, it took him less than fifteen seconds.

Very slowly, I turn my eyes back on the screen. Joy stares at me, mouth agape, obviously utterly gobsmacked. Di is yawning again.

Nervously lacing my fingers together, I watch as Joy closes and opens her mouth several times, a frown etched between her brows, obviously clamouring for words. "Rilla, sweetest…" she says weakly. "Is that… was that…?"

She leaves the question unfinished and I don't have it in me to help her out, instead just sitting there mutely and clenching my hands together.

Changing tracks, Joy calls out Di's name in an authoritarian voice, causing Di to startle into attention. Shaking her head like a wet dog, she grumbles, "I'm here. No need to shout."

"Did you just see what I saw?" Joy demands, barely lowering the volume of her voice.

Di sighs heavily. "Rilla got herself a new piece of man candy. Good for her. It doesn't warrant all that shouting though." (It's probably neither here nor there, but… _might_ someone be having a bit of a hangover?)

"Uh-huh," makes Joy. "And did that 'piece of man candy' remind you of anyone?"

Blinking confusedly at the screen, Di slowly shakes her head. "Was it anyone we know?" she asks.

Now Joy's the one sighing. " _Where_ is Nan when I need her?" she mutters, exasperated.

"I'm sure she'll be joining us soon," Di supplies helpfully, though she only succeeds in making Joy glare briefly at the right side of her screen. A second later, her eyes move to the left and just like that, I know that I'm back in focus.

"Alright, Rilla. I'm going to assume that you found yourself a _very_ good lookalike version of… well, you know who," she states, obviously choosing her words with caution.

I swallow heavily. Dimly, I register Di's brow knitting into a frown of confusion as she mumbles, "What's Harry Potter got to do with it?" But neither Joy nor I pay her any heed.

"No lookalike," I finally admit quietly. My clenched hands are starting to hurt.

For a second or four, no-one says a thing. "So… you are to tell me that that just there was… the original?" Joy finally intones, her voice one of disbelief.

Very, very slowly, I nod my head.

Joy exhales heavily.

Di yawns.

"Could anyone explain to me what we're talking about?" she asks, still utterly unmoved by what is happening. "I'm afraid I'm not copying."

"You don't say," mutters Joy under her breath. Louder, she says, "Rilla's piece of man candy just happens to be a prince."

I flinch at her words.

Di rubs her nose in thought. "A prince? Is this some kind of cosplay? Because if it is, I don't think that's how it works."

Joy looks very much like she's trying to think up a way to crawl through the internet cable and douse Di with a big bucket of _very_ cold water, so I reluctantly take it upon myself to answer.

"No cosplay. He… he's really one. A prince, I mean. The, um, the Prince of Wales? Prince Kenneth?" The name sounds foreign as it rolls down my tongue. He's only ever Ken to me, so to give him his proper title feels utterly strange.

The effect of my words, at least, rivals that of a big bucket of cold water. After a second or two of processing what I said, Di immediately sits up straighter, her expression becoming alert.

"You are serious about this, aren't you?" she questions.

But I don't get a chance to reply, for Joy is obviously out of patience. "Of course she is! Didn't you _see_ him?"

"I saw a man. Excuse me for not immediately recognising him," Di retorts, doing nothing to mask her sarcasm, her sharpness of tongue having returned with her sharpness of mind.

"Nan would have," Joy points out needlessly.

And her words seem to have mysterious summoning powers, for a split second later, Di's face gets pushed upwards on my screen to make space for a beaming Nan.

"Good Morning, everyone," she calls out brightly. "Sorry for being late. What did I miss?"

Di gives a snort of laughter. Joy purses her lips. I sit very, very still.

Her eyes roaming around her own screen, Nan cocks her head to the side. "Is anything the matter?"

"Just that Rilla is apparently bedding a prince. A real life one, as I've been assured. Joy says she recognised him," Di answers drily.

I physically jerk backwards at her words, which doesn't go unnoticed by any of them.

"Di!" Joy immediately snaps. "Don't be crude!"

I can see Di's eyes flicker to the side. "Sorry," she mumbles, twisting her mouth in what I know to be an apologetic fashion. Nodding, I accept the apology, but still wrap my arms around myself for comfort.

Having gotten a moment to collect herself, Nan slowly asks, "And… what kind of prince are we talking about?"

"A British one," supplies Di.

"Prince Kenneth," elaborates Joy.

A split second later, I flinch back again, though this time because of the loud squeal emitting from Nan. "You're _kidding_ me!"

She looks, by and large, fairly… well, _excited_ is the word that comes to mind.

"Oh boy, here we go," Di mutters sarcastically, but we all just ignore her. Instead, I focus my gaze on Nan, because while I'm not sure how helpful her excitement is, it's the first vaguely positive response I've gotten.

"No kidding," I tell her. "It's… just what they said."

"He was there with her," Joy relates. "Di and I saw him. Not that Di recognised him, but… I did. You would have, too."

Nan nods slowly, then looks back at me, eyes bright with curiosity. "So… was it good?"

Joy splutters in surprise. I take a deep breath. Di arches an eyebrow. "Who's being crude now?" she asks pointedly.

Nan brushes her remark aside impatiently. "Oh, don't pretend you weren't wondering! I mean, it's the million dollar question, isn't it? Do princes _really_ do it better?"

I feel my face heat up, knowing that my cheeks are likely bright red and not being able to do anything about it.

"You do realise you don't have to answer, don't you, Rilla?" Joy quickly interjects, her voice now concerned. Both twins look at her with indignation, but she merely responds by narrowing her eyes at them.

I know I don't have to answer. But somehow, after all those months of lying, I feel a weird obligation to be honest with them. And besides, it's not as if this is unchartered territory for us. (Honestly, if our respective partners knew everything we discuss between us… let's just say, it would be supremely awkward. Sometimes, it already is.)

"It's… I don't know how to answer that," I reply, helplessly searching for words. "I mean, it's just… you know? Looking at it from the outside, it's always… a bit messy and awkward and bumbling, isn't it? This isn't TV. And with a new partner, you always need a bit of time to… well, to figure out how you fit together, right?"

I look towards them for confirmation, but am instead met with three similarly frowning faces. "Not really a glowing review," Di observes drily.

Hiding my face in my hands, I quickly shake my head. "No, that's not… I didn't mean… I like… well, _being_ with him. A lot. But he's just… he's no different from anyone else. Him being who he is didn't make this magically more… I mean, no-one fainted from ecstasy, no angels descended, there was no choir singing dramatically in the background. It was just… I mean, the first time was a bit clumsy, I guess, but since then, we've figured out how to… how to… Look, what I'm saying is, it's… enjoyable, but it's still… still _real_ , you know?"

Lowering my hands, I implore them to understand with my eyes. Joy is nodding slowly and Nan gives me a sympathetic smile. Di, however, still has her brow furrowed in thought.

"You mentioned a 'first time', which in turn implies that there was a second time, and probably several more times after that," she states. "Which begs the question – how long has this been going on?"

That does get the others' attention and suddenly, I'm met with three very alert pairs of eyes, watching me from my screen.

Swallowing, I try an answer. "A while?" But it comes out more as a question than anything else.

Nan opens her mouth to speak, but Joy beats her to it. "Wait a moment, please. This doesn't go back to that party back in October, does it?"

Somewhat reluctantly, I nod, gnawing on my lower lip as I do.

"But that was five months ago!" Joy protests. Di backs her up with a firm nod. Nan looks like she doesn't know whether to be put out or fascinated.

"Uh, yes. It was. But we were friends at first," I try to defend myself, though it sounds weak to my own ears. There's no real defence that can hold water in this particular case.

"And when did you stop being friends?" Nan enquires curiously.

A moment passes, before I answer. "Never, I hope. But, well… that _first time_ I mentioned, yes? That was just before Christmas."

"So three months ago," Joy observes. "And you never thought to give us the _tiniest_ hint?"

I open my mouth, realise I don't have the words to explain everything that went into my reluctance to tell them, and close it again.

"You know you can trust us, don't you?" Nan adds, and thought she says it kindly, there's the unspoken question hanging in the air. _Don't you trust us?_

"Yes, I know. It's not that. It's just… just that…" Floundering, I break off.

Thankfully, it's Di to the rescue. "Oh, give her a break, you two. This is a bit more difficult than telling us she went on a date with Joe Everyman, isn't it?"

"I didn't know how to tell you," I confirm, my voice quiet. "I told Mum and that was hard enough. I tried to find a way to tell you, too, but it just sounds so fantastical… like it can't be real, once it's put into words. Like I've gone utterly mental or something."

"True," nods Di, very matter-of-factly. "The number of women who ever had any reason to use the words 'I'm dating the future King of England' in a serious context is certainly very low."

Joy makes a thoughtful sound. "It _is_ a bit hard to wrap your mind around. Not that I'm questioning it – I saw him with my own two eyes, after all –, but if someone told me tomorrow I'd just dreamed it all, I'd also believe _that_ in a heartbeat. It's so surreal. Kind of a 'pinch me'-moment, only you have to do it three times a minute to remind yourself it's real."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

"It doesn't really go away either. I mean, when it's just him and me, when it's just _Ken_ , it all feels like the most natural thing in the world. And then something happens to remind me that in another world, he isn't 'just Ken' and…" I shrug helplessly.

"And you want to pinch yourself," finishes Joy. "Yeah."

Cocking her head to the side in thought, Nan wonders, "How did you know? That you like him as a person, rather than as a – prince." She hesitates the tiniest bit before the last word, making clear that the reality of this is starting to sink in for her as well.

"By which Nan, naturally, doesn't mean to imply you're just chasing a tiara. She's merely being her usual obtrusive self," Di interjects before I get a chance to reply. Nan immediately proceeds to glower at her – not that it concerns Di. (She's right, too. Nan, in time-honoured tradition of therapists the world over, has a weird fascination with breezing past all boundaries and then prodding exactly where it hurts.)

Still, it's not a bad question. And let's be honest – we crossed my personal boundaries a long time ago. No use trying to hold firm on them now.

"I guess it's because most of the time, I do my utmost to pretend that he _is_ just Joe Everyman," I answer with a wry smile. "The moment I look at the wider picture, it all becomes… confusing and weird and yes, scary. But when it's just the two of us, just being together, not letting the outside world in…"

Once again, I lack the words to say what I mean to say. And once again, Joy knows anyway.

"You love him." There's no question in her voice. "You really do love him."

And what else is there to do but nod?

Di whistles softly. "And does he…?"

"He… he says he does," I answer quietly.

For a long moment, no-one says a word.

"Wow," Nan breathes. "This is for real, isn't it? You're _really_ dating a prince."

Shaking her head slowly, as if trying to clear her thoughts, Di murmurs, "How did this _happen_?"

And I could tell her about the dress and the wine, about Halloween and sprinkles on a birthday cake, about sixties music and noughties movies and where they lead to. I will, too. But that's not really what she's asking. And the truth it, that none of this actually explains anything. There is only one answer I could possible give.

"I have no idea. I guess it just… did?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Heaven' (written by_ _Bryan Adams and Jim Vallance_ _, released by Bryan Adams in 1983)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Oh, I know all about busy. I'm posting this chapter sitting on a hotel bed while on a work trip. I'm glad that you took out the time to write me a review anyway :).  
And I'm glad Ken managed to _somewhat _redeem himself ;). He's only human and he isn't done making mistakes (neither is Rilla), but I think it's correct to say that he listened to her and tries his best. Not perfect, but I think we can award him some brownie points for making an effort.  
I hope everything goes well with your matriculation. Consider my fingers crossed!  
_


	18. Have another little piece of my heart

_New York City, USA  
_ _April 2011_

 **Have another little piece of my heart **

"Let it be known that I understood maybe every second word of what that dotty old man was talking about," Megan announces, though she sounds cheerfully unconcerned by it.

"Meg", chides Chelsea mildly. She looks to me for back-up but I just shrug and grin at her. Not even Chelsea could argue that 'dotty old man' is an inaccurate description for Professor Grey.

Shaking her head at us, Chelsea stuffs her notes into her backpack. Megan, I notice, didn't even unpack.

"What are you two doing tonight?" asks Chelsea as she hoists the backpack over her shoulder and nods at us to start walking. "I thought we might grab a bite to eat and try to parse today's lecture together afterwards."

"Can't," declares Megan, almost skipping up the stairs of the lecture hall. "I have practice."

"Well, colour me surprised," I deadpan. Megan grins at me.

Chelsea, holding the door open for us, frowns in thought. "Didn't you already have practice yesterday?"

"Sure," confirms Megan patiently. "But seeing as I didn't understand more than every second word of that lecture we just suffered through, I figured I'd better intensify my training. I mean, once I'm an Olympic fencer, my grades ought to be secondary, right?"

"Not aiming high at all, are you?" I tease.

Megan grins. "Got to have goals in life. We can't all waft through life and time as directionless as you."

I give her a sourly smile, causing her to laugh. (There's more than a spark of truth to her words, hence why they don't sit _quit_ e comfortably with me.)

"I take every day as it comes," I reply archly. "When can you do that if not as a student?"

"She has a point," concedes Chelsea in Megan's direction, and loops an arm through mine.

"Oh, you're just trying to sweet talk her into joining you in the library later," Megan observes cheerfully (and rightly, I presume).

Chelsea clucks her tongue in annoyance. "I am trying to do no such thing."

"I can't join you anyway," I tell her, feeling apologetic. "I would, but –"

"But the boyfriend," interrupts Chelsea with a smile. "Say no more."

"But the boyfriend," I nod, smiling wryly.

I didn't tell my friends who, exactly, _the boyfriend_ is, but I did tell them that I _have_ a boyfriend, which simplifies matters a lot. Instead of lying about where I'm spending my evenings, I can now merely point to the boyfriend and know that they'll understand. I kept vague about details though, merely hinting that said boyfriend was already out of college, that he worked with my brother-in-law (which is true in a very roundabout way) and that he lives the kind of busy grown-up life that doesn't allow him to join us on nights out. They accepted it readily enough, with only Seraphina expressing more than a passing interest in meeting him and even she was quickly distracted. When she pressed for a name, I offered up Alexander, which, in my defence, is one of Ken's several names (third or fourth, I think).

That I didn't tell them the entire truth might look like I don't trust them. It's not that though. It's that I realised that _I_ don't feel ready for it. Telling my sisters exhausted me in a weird but very real way, and ever since, I've noticed a certain shift. They're being absolutely supportive, but I can see them looking at me strangely sometimes and their questions are often directed not at my relationship but at my relationship _with the prince_. Which I totally get and don't much mind, but still… it's nice to be just the same old Rilla as always, with my friends.

"You know what," Chelsea remarks pensively, "if neither of you is revising, maybe I won't either. There's that new show on HBO based on these fantasy books I read some years ago. Maybe I'll give that a try instead."

"A very sensible decision," I encourage and gently tug her along towards the staircase leading outside. "You study too much as it is."

Chelsea looks very much like she wants to argue (likely that there's no such thing as 'too much studying'), but Megan beats her to it.

"Tell me if that show is worth a watch, will you? I'm always on the look-out for good TV," she states. Then, with a frown, "Though you can't ever be sure until you've seen the very last episode. When I think of how much of my life I lost to _Lost_ …"

"That finale was supremely bad," I agree with a shudder. Even Chelsea grimaces at the memory.

"It made me distrustful of TV," relates Megan earnestly as she pushes open a set of doors that lead us out of the building.

I allow myself a fine smile. "Just as well, isn't it? If you want to become an Olympic fencer, you better spend your time practicing rather than in front of the TV."

Chelsea gives a snort of laughter and, after a moment of thought, Megan joins in. "Can't argue with that logic," she concedes with a grin. "Which is exactly why I'm off to practice now. See you tomorrow!"

Says it, waves, and turns to jog off towards… well, towards wherever she does her fencing. I'm vague on where, exactly, that is.

Taking my own leave from Chelsea with a brief hug and the promise that tomorrow, we'll have a stab at revising whatever the dotty old man tried to teach us, I start walking in the direction of the Subway station. Luckily, once there, I don't have to wait long for a train to arrive, but unluckily, it's fairly packed, forcing me to stand for at least three quarters of the journey. And while I manage to secure a seat for the last few stops at least, it's a small mercy. (Somehow, shoes never pinch quite as badly as they do when you're forced to stand for an extended period of time. It's a law of nature, I think. Specifically, a law of new shoe nature.)

Glad to leave the Subway behind for today, I hurry home. As I climb the steps to the front door, I wave at Mrs Weisz, sitting at the window of her flat with a book in her hand, and gain a nod and smile in return. Coming out successfully from the daily fight with the front door, I have only just stepped into the hall when my phone rings somewhere in the confines of my bag.

Dropping my keys into the bag, I let my hand roam for the phone instead, pressing to accept the call the moment I find it.

"Yes?" I ask, slightly out of breath.

"It's me, sweetie," comes Mum's voice.

Slipping the handle of the bag back over my shoulder, I start my ascent up the stairs. "Hey Mum."

"How are you doing?" she asks, her voice carefully schooled into cheerfulness and I immediately know that she's just making small talk and waits for any opening to talk about whatever she called to talk about.

"Good, good," I answer, because as long as I can keep her talking about inconsequential things, she can't talk about what she called to talk about. It's brilliant logic. "Just came back from university. We did Sherlock Holmes today, which at least didn't make me want to hurl my book at the wall."

Mum makes a noncommittal sound. "That's lovely, darling. But I was really calling because I was wondering –"

I don't let her get any further. "What's your take on Holmes and Irene Adler? We got into a bit of a discussion on them, and decided it's quite strange how many adaptions insist in having him be in love with her. It's not really in the story, is it?"

"I don't think Conan Doyle meant for Holmes to have romantic feelings for any woman," answers Mum, somewhat distracted. "But, sweetheart –"

"See! That's what I said!" I interrupt her once more as I tackle another set of stairs. "He admires her as a professional, but all these simpering love affairs in later adaptions are just ridiculous. I mean –"

This time, it's Mum cutting me short. "Rilla!" she calls out, not unkindly, but definitely firmly. "While part of me would be interested in seeing just how long you can filibuster this phone call, I have a call with my editor scheduled in fifteen minutes and don't really have time for this."

Pursing my lips, I ask (somewhat petulantly, I must admit), "So talking to your editor is more important than talking to your own child?"

"Don't be melodramatic, darling," replies Mum with a laugh and, I'm sure, an eye roll. "If you'd like to, we can talk about Holmes all you want, later this evening."

"Can't," I answer, setting foot on the final staircase. "Ken's here."

"Yes, I see. It's quite a coincidence that you should mention him actually, because that's precisely what I wanted to talk to you about," remarks Mum.

I bite my tongue to keep from cursing. I walked right into that one, didn't I?

Stopping in front of my door, I heave a most dramatic sigh. "Okay. Shoot."

As I grapple for my keys (the new door has more locks than anyone could possibly need), Mum carefully enquires, "Did you see the latest news about him?"

Groaning, I lower my hand holding the keys and lean against the door instead. "You shouldn't believe everything the tabloids write, Mum."

"I didn't say I believed it. I asked whether you'd seen it," Mum corrects.

I have, as a matter of fact. A whole long article linking him to a really famous Irish model. Legs for miles and the kind of red hair that I'm not _entirely_ sure is natural.

"I saw it," I confirm, doing nothing to keep the annoyance from my voice. "So what? Tabloids will be tabloids. Making up stories to sell papers is what they do."

Really, I'm not even sure what Mum is on about. When _Hello!_ ran that article about him and Lady Tatty, she was the one to explain the inner workings of tabloids to me, not the other way round.

Pushing off from the door, I insert the key into the last lock, giving the door a shove to open it. Inside, I immediately see Ken sitting on the bed, a laptop on his knees, typing with one hand and using the other to stroke a semi-sleeping George. (It's asinine that he has to lock the door when he's inside the apartment, but apparently, it makes his PPOs sleep better at night.) When they hear me enter, both raise their heads to look at me. Ken smiles. George immediately settles back into his sleeping position.

Mum, meanwhile, is still talking. "Of course they do. That's not really what I meant though. I've just been thinking –"

But _I_ have heard quite enough of this. Following an impulse, I lob the phone in Ken's direction, where it comes to lie on the bed next to his knee. (George, thusly disturbed, glares at me.) "Can you _please_ tell my mother that you aren't having an affair with a model, Irish or otherwise?"

Looking quite nonplussed, Ken nevertheless reaches out to pick up the phone and raises it to his ear, moving the laptop to the floor with his other hand. "Mrs Blythe? This is Kenneth speaking."

(I can't be totally sure from those few words, but somehow, it seems to me as if the poshness of his accent is more pronounced than usual. Probably an unconscious thing, but still a bit funny.)

Dropping my bag next to the door and slipping off my pinching shoes and not-quite-warm-enough coat, I listen to Ken's side of the conversation with pricked ears. "I assure you, Ma'am, that there's no truth to that story. I don't think I've ever even met the woman."

Did he seriously just _Ma'am_ her?

Biting back a smile, I turn toward the kitchen and fill up a glass of water from the sink. Behind me, I can hear Ken make quiet _hmm_ -noises, indicating that he's listening to whatever Mum is explaining to him.

She obviously has a lot to say, because it takes some moments before he speaks again. "Yes. Yes, I do see your point, Mrs Blythe."

Hey! Traitor!

Turning, I give him a wounded look of betrayal. He smiles back, his eyes crinkling slightly, but seems otherwise quite interested in what Mum has to say.

"Yes. No. You're right," he adds.

I move my lower lip forward in a pout. He wasn't supposed to _agree_ with her!

Mum is apparently speaking again, with Ken nodding along to her. "I could have someone put out some feelers to the editor of the magazine," he suggests. "That way, we could find out if it's just the usual drivel or whether they have something of substance."

What on earth is he _talking_ about?

I open my mouth to ask, but Ken is speaking again. "Yes, we're entirely on the same side on this, Mrs Blythe." Briefly, he raises his eyes to look at me. "Be assured that I'm doing everything I can to ensure it."

I'm beginning to question whether it was a good idea to get those two talking. They seem awfully chummy!

"Glad we agree. And thank you for trusting me with your concern. I will take care of it at the earliest opportunity," Ken promises. Then, "Yes, me, too. Thank you. Have a good evening, Mrs Blythe."

He lowers the phone and looks at me, raising an eyebrow when he sees my face.

"What was that?" I ask indignantly.

"I talked to your mother. Just as you asked me to," he replies in a maddeningly unconcerned way.

"You weren't supposed to agree with her on – on whatever she made you agree on," I protest.

Laughing, he holds out both arms to me and, somewhat reluctantly, I walk over to the bed to stand in front of him. "She had a point. I could hardly not agree with her," he explains, sliding his hands to lie on my hips.

"What point?" I demand, even as I reach out a hand of my own to pat down a strand of his hair that's sticking up a bit.

"She's worried because that model they linked me to is a redhead. She thinks someone might have found out about me dating a women with red hair and that, not knowing her exact identity, the press is now taking shots at any red-haired woman they can find, hoping something will stick," Ken elaborates. His thumbs lightly brush over my hipbones.

Hm… I didn't even think about it like that.

"Do you think it could be true?" I ask, feeling my stomach coil at the thought.

Ken shakes his head. "Unlikely. If they had any real intel, they would have found out for sure before publishing. The way they are doing it now, if they had anything, they'd just give away valuable info to the competition. I don't think they'd do that. It's probably just the usual drivel."

I must have looked unconvinced, for he moves his hands upwards to settle on my waist instead, applying the lightest of pressures. "I'm looking into it, I promise. I wouldn't be too worried though. We've been very careful so far and I can't see how anyone would have found out," he assures.

Scrutinising his face, I come to the conclusion that he looks perfectly sincere and also not too concerned. He genuinely seems to believe that there's nothing to this and, well, he's the expert, isn't he?

With a sigh and a turn, I allow myself to flop down on the bed, coming to lie next to Ken. George, feeling disturbed in his beauty sleep, picks himself up with a most disdainful expression, does an elaborate stretch (burrowing the nails of his front paws in Ken's leg as he does, making him wince) and hops off the bed.

Stalking off towards the kitchen, he is momentarily distracted in his haughtiness by a piece of fluff in his way that is, very clearly, just asking to be murdered most brutally.

Hearing Ken chuckle behind me and watching George chase the fluff through the entire apartment with much fervour, I observe, "I meant to clean the place today." But it sounds less than motivated to my own ears.

"Did you?" asks Ken non-committally. When I turn my head to look at him, I can see him watch George with some amusement.

"Yes," I confirm. "And you should feel bad about it. I've been cleaning for three for months now." But the accusation is half-hearted and further robbed of any strength by a yawn overcoming me.

"I could help," Ken offers immediately, sounding more alert now.

Eyeing him dubiously, I ask, "Have you ever even come into the vicinity of cleaning detergents before?"

He shrugs, a relaxed smile on his lips. "No. But they did teach us to make our beds back at Sandhurst." Sandhurst, as I've learned, being the Army officer school he went to. He also attended both Navy and Air Force schools, but my brain has deleted the whereabouts of those.

"So you're in charge of the bed," I decide, suppressing yet another yawn.

"For once, you mean?" Ken quips, and starts laughing when I glare at him in response.

"Yes," I confirm haughtily. "For once. Don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he shoots back and for that, at the very latest, he has earned the punch I direct against his shoulder. (George, in the meantime, has obviously decided us to be quite mad and curled up on his favourite windowsill instead.)

Making a great play at appearing wounded, Ken drops down next to me on the bed, before immediately engulfing me into the kind of bear hug that never fails to make me smile.

"I don't want to clean today," I confess after a moment, my body still folded comfortably in his arms.

"You don't say?" teases Ken, but escapes further assaults for this latest example of cheek by the fact that he has me well and truly captured.

"Uh-huh," I reply earnestly. "Cleaning is no fun. But we might watch TV instead. Chelsea says there's that new show on. Something about thrones?"

Ken shrugs, allowing me to wiggle out of his hold as he does so. "Sure, if you want to," he agrees easily.

Thus encouraged, I scramble to get the show on for us, settling back into Ken's welcoming arms afterwards and waiting, half-drowsy, for it to start. When it does, I must say that it doesn't look half-bad to me, but Ken, very obviously, grows bored very quickly.

After ten minutes, he's nibbling at my earlobe. After twelve minutes, he's kissing my neck. After fifteen minutes, he's reached my navel. After sixteen minutes, he has my undivided attention.

When, much later, I turn back towards the screen, the episode is long over.

"You made me miss it," I state half-accusingly.

Ken grins down at me. "Weren't complaining five minutes ago, were you?"

Well. No. I wasn't. (Can't be blamed for it either, I think.)

"Still," I persist, stretching lazily. "I might have liked to have seen it. It looked promising."

But I'm just being contrary for the sake of it and he knows it perfectly well.

"It didn't look very accurate," he points out, flopping down to lie beside me and drawing me close. "More fantastical than anything."

"What gave it away? The undead frozen people at the beginning?" I tease, but can't help giggling when Ken, smiling, reaches out a hand to ruffle my hair.

"No, the frozen dragon eggs," he counters.

Dragon eggs? Hmm… must have missed those.

"Missed those, did you?" he observes, the smile widening into a grin.

Deciding against answering, I instead huff to express my indignation and turn my head away.

Laughing, Ken cuddles me closer. "Come here. I apologise. And I shall make up for it. I'll ask them to give me the whole thing on DVD. Do you just want the first episode or and advance screening of entire season?"

I snort, incredulous, and turn to look at him. "They'll never do that!"

But Ken just cocks his head to the side and _looks_ at me and I realise that yes, if he asks, they totally will.

"My life does have the occasional perks," he points out easily. "And since it looked like they filmed at least part of it back in the UK, it should be even easier for me to get my hands on it. Now, what do you say?"

"Whole season, please," I decide. Then, after a moment of thought, "What makes you think they filmed it in England? The rest of Europe has plenty of old castle-y buildings as well."

"Just a hunch," he replies. "And who made you an expert on old European castles anyway?"

"Not an expert," I parry, snuggling closer to him as I speak. "But I did see a couple of them back during my gap year."

Ken makes a thoughtful noise. "Didn't you spend your gap year babysitting for your sister? I seem to think you did."

"I did both. Dan had a year-long placement with the Geneva offices of the UN and since Joy had just had Izzie, she asked me to come along and help her. Kind of as an au-pair of sorts. I didn't have anything else lined up and hadn't made up my mind about university yet, so I agreed. I spent Monday to Friday helping her with the children and regularly used the weekends to travel Europe. That's how I got to see London, too," I explain readily. "And when the year was over and they returned to New York, I went with them."

What I don't say is that my decision to follow Joy and her family to Switzerland was also the death blow to my relationship with Carl. He had asked me to go travelling with him as well, but since his idea of travelling involves backpacks and tents and my idea of travelling involves hotels and bathrooms, I chose to decline. So, in a very honest conversation, we agreed that he'd go alone and called it a day on the romantic part of our relationship. And when, two years later, he returned to the world of bathrooms again, we found to both of our relief that we had slipped back into friendship instead.

"Sounds like fun. Just to hop on to a train and go explore whatever city you chose to." Ken sounds a little wistful, saying this, and it takes me a moment to understand why, but when I do, it's pretty obvious.

"You can't do that, can you?" I ask carefully.

His mouth twists into a wry smile. "Don't get me wrong. I get to see the most amazing sites when I'm travelling and I get to see them without standing in line for hours in the scorching sun. When the itinerary calls for me to go up Eiffel Tower, they close it down for the day. It's convenient, but it's also unreal. I know most people would kill to get to see Angkor in the morning sun, totally devoid of tourists, but the experience can also be strangely… aseptic. And it requires months of planning. I never get to go anywhere just because the fancy strikes me."

"You can't ever just sit on the Spanish Steps to eat ice cream or drink a coffee on St Mark's Square," I realise.

"I don't think anyone should drink a coffee on St Mark's Square," Ken points out. "I mean, how much do they charge? Twenty euros for a cappuccino?" The wistfulness is gone from his voice, replaced by something lighter, and I'm glad for it.

"I don't know," I reply airily. "Euros are like Monopoly money to me anyway. I managed to get the hang of Swiss franc after a while, but only by necessity."

He laughs and presses a quick kiss to my temple.

After a moment of thought, I add, "Is it true that royals never carry money, by the way?"

"Myth," he answers, unperturbed. "I mean, my grandmother never did, but the rest of us do keep cards on ourselves at least, especially when we're home. On official trips, we don't usually bother with foreign currency ourselves though. It's not like we ever have opportunity to just spend an afternoon shopping anyway. It's usually planned to the minute. I remember when I was in Geneva for a conference some years ago and I never saw anything but the inside of my hotel, the inside of a car and the inside of that conference hall."

"Oh, I know you were in Geneva," I nod eagerly. "You ruined Joy's Halloween costume."

There's a moment of silence as Ken processes this. "I did… what?"

Laughing at his confusion, I push myself upwards a little to look at him. "See, it was like this. We were trick or treating, having just collected a piece of eel for our effort, and were just walking down the road, minding our own business, when some official looking cars sped past us and splashed Joy and Dan with water. Ruined both their costumes. She was a kangaroo and he a platypus. We had an Australian animals theme, you see? Jake wanted me to be an emu, but I figured dingo would look cuter."

Once more, Ken just blinks at me in silence for several seconds. "There are about seven different things I need explanations for, the piece of eel being one of them," he finally replies slowly, "but for the time being, won't you explain to me how the ruining of costumes was my fault?"

"Certainly," I agree helpfully. "Dan concluded that it was you and your entourage in those cars. So you, by extension, did the splashing. Joy was _so_ mad!"

"Uh-huh," makes Ken, still looking a little befuddled, "and you only thought to tell me this now, did you? _After_ I agreed to her dinner invitation?"

Eh… whoops?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Piece of My Heart' (written by Jerry Ragovoy and Bert Berns, released by Big Brother and the Holding Company in 1968)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Glad that you liked Ken and the sisters :). I had lots of fun with that chapter, but also tried very much to give them distinct reactions. It's good to know that it worked!_  
 _Yes, I should think George would find the Cats musical and everyone involved with it supremely embarrassing. I mean, all that singing and the ridiculous costumes... it's an affront to cat, that's what! ;)_  
 _Oh, and once more, all the best on your exams again! Friday is the big day, isn't it? Which subjects are you taking? (If I may be so bold as to ask.)  
Looking forward to more detailed thoughts on this chapter whenever you have the time :).  
_

 _To the anonymous Guest:  
You're very welcome! I'm glad you're enjoying this story and hope you will like what I have in store for all these characters._


	19. Don't you know it's gonna be alright?

_New York City, USA  
_ _April 2011_

 **Don't you know it's gonna be alright?**

"And you're _sure_ he didn't suddenly go vegan?" Joy asks me, sounding as frazzled as she looks.

"Reasonably," I deadpan, thinking back at how Ken devoured three and a half rashers of bacon just this morning (with half a rasher snuck to an imploring George behind my back).

Joy rubs her forehead, leaving a light dusting of flour when she lowers her hand again. "And you promise he doesn't have any allergies? Or intolerances?"

Hopping down from the kitchen counter, I walk up to my sister, take her by the shoulders and turn her to look at me. "Joy. He regularly drinks my coffee. Complainingly, but he does. I'd say that after that, he can stomach anything you cook up for him today."

Slowly, Joy nods. "You do need a stomach lined with lead to survive that awful dishwater stuff," she concedes reluctantly.

What's betting that if I drop dead tomorrow, someone will write that instant coffee into my obtiuary as the customary light, funny moment?

Still, anything to calm her down. "See?" I encourage. "It'll be fine."

My sister takes a deep breath. "But what if he just doesn't like it?"

"Then you will never know. He learned manners at his grandmother's knee," I relate with a shrug.

"His grandmother…" Joy swallows heavily.

"Queen Alexandra," I nod. "I don't think he ever consciously met his mother's mother. She might even have been dead by the time he was born."

"Right," murmurs Joy. A beat, before she adds, "Queen Alexandra did not look like a woman who'd let her grandson get away with not finishing the food on his plate."

From what I gather, Queen Alexandra was a woman who didn't let her grandson – or anyone, really – get away with anything at all, but there's no use complicating matters by pointing that out now.

"It'll be fine, Joy," I promise. "It's just dinner."

Truth to be told, I'm not as calm as I pretend to be either. Unlike Joy, I'm not at all worried that her dinner won't be a rousing success – it's _Joy_ , after all – but still… I want this to go well. It might be just dinner, but it does feel meaningful in a way. Not only are the Raines the first members of my family I get to introduce Ken to, it's the first time Ken and I will go anywhere at all as an official, well, _couple_.

But alas, looking at how frazzled my usually so composed sister is by the upcoming meeting, I do my best to keep my own nerves under control. Someone here has to remain calm, after all, and Dan is still finishing up some work in his study.

"I know it's just dinner," Joy remarks weakly. "But he isn't just _anyone_."

"No," I reply firmly. "He isn't. He's my boyfriend and I'd be really grateful if you could treat him as such."

"He's a bit more than just that," mutters Joy.

I give her shoulders a squeeze. "Not tonight he isn't. Just pretend he's any of my previous boyfriends, if it helps. I mean, you never fretted this much about having Tristan or Eric over."

Shaking off my hands, Joy turns to the stove instead, stirring a pot or two, and I know it's because she's annoyed at her own nervousness.

"I hadn't picked you as making such a deal out of royalty anyway," I point out to her back. Joy's all about equality, after all. The mere concept of a few people singled out by birth to sit above all others must go against most – if not all – of her principles.

"I don't agree with the concept of hereditary transmission of power, if that's what you mean," Joy replies, turning to look at me again.

"Yeah. Let's not make that a topic of discussion during dinner, alright?" I ask drily.

Joy opens her mouth, no doubt to say something sarcastic, but is cut off by the doorbell ringing.

Closing her eyes for composure, Joy takes a deep breath. "Here we go," she murmurs quietly. Then, opening her eyes and squaring her shoulders, she makes her way to the front door. I follow on her heels, though not without making sure to firmly close the kitchen door, the better to hide the utter mess inside. (Joy's cooking is delicious, but it isn't an orderly process.)

Before opening the front door, Joy takes a moment to steal a glance at the mirror hanging next to the coat rack and pat down her hair. Thus, when she finally does open the door, Ken is already on the other side, currently winding off the scarf he _just_ about gets away with using as a disguise in a still fairly chilly April.

"Mrs Raine," he greets and offers Joy a hand. "Thank you for having me tonight."

"Thank you for being here, um…" Joy breaks off, clearly at a loss as how to address him.

Thankfully, if there's one thing Ken's used to, it's putting people at ease in his presence. "Just Ken, please," he asks with a charming smile and I can see Joy's shoulders relax slightly.

"In that case, please call me Joy," she invites. "And please come inside."

Ushering Ken inside the hall, Joy points to a rather large package he's holding. "Shall I take that? And Rilla will take your coat."

Rolling my eyes at how quickly she's back to bossing me around, I nevertheless reach out to take Ken's coat from him. As he hands it off, he briefly bends down to brush his lips against my cheek in greeting, winking as he straightens again.

"It's for you," he then informs Joy and nods towards the package she is already holding. "I was informed I owed you something."

What on _earth_ …?

I mean, he didn't just…?

He did.

When a somewhat puzzled Joy gingerly opens the package, the does, in fact, reveal a 100% polyester kangaroo costume.

"To replace the one I had a hand in ruining," Ken explains needlessly. Joy just stares at the costume in her hand, blinking rapidly, as if doubting her eyes.

Looking from Ken to Joy and back again, I notice that he's fidgeting the slightest bit and realise that he, too, is nervous. Nervous about Joy not appreciating the joke of his gift and, perhaps, nervous about this entire evening.

Who would have thought?

Thankfully, Joy seems to have processed what is happening around her, for she gives a surprised snort of laughter and turns to look at us. "Well, better late than never, right?"

Ken inclines his head with a smile, and though he outwardly doesn't show it, I sense his body relaxing slightly. It might have been unusual, but the costume proved a better ice breaker than a bunch of flowers.

"So, that really was you in one of those cars back in Geneva?" Joy enquires curiously as she carefully places the costume down in a side table.

But before Ken can reply to that, there's the sound of quick footsteps and a moment later, Izzie speeds into the hall. (We told her Ken was my friend, but refrained from mentioning anything about him being a prince. Chances are that anyone she told of her aunt being friends with a prince, would dismiss it as a little girl's fanciful tales, but it seemed better not to risk it.)

Sliding the last meter on her be-socked feet, Izzie comes to a halt right in front of Ken.

"And you must be Izzie?" he asks, bending down slightly to be closer to her height.

Izzie, never one to be shy with strangers, puts her hands on her hips and scrutinises him closely for several long seconds. Then, "You look like Flynn Rider. I like you."

Says it and races off again.

For a moment, Ken remains in his somewhat awkward position, before straightening, a frown of confusion etched between his brows. "I don't know… was that a compliment?" he asks, helpless at the reference.

"Not necessarily," answers Joy, catching my eye and supressing a smile.

"Hmh," Ken nods slowly. "More of an insult then?"

"Not necessarily that either," I reply, keeping my straight face for a fraction of a second before being overcome by a laugh. Joy joins in immediately.

Ken looks from one to the other, clearly not understanding a thing. But then, I didn't really expect him to.

Joy takes pity on him before I do. "You see, um, Ken, when I had a daughter, I promised myself she'd grow up free of the stereotypical expectations foisted on young girls these days. Most especially, I promised myself she'd grow up without Disney princesses. Unfortunately, I didn't reckon with my sister here."

Both turn to look at me and I nod innocently. "Guilty."

"Disney princesses, eh?" teases Ken and raises an eyebrow.

Flipping my hair over my shoulder in an exaggerated gesture, I explain earnestly, "Oh yes. They made a few good ones recently. Usually, the princes in them are bumbling idiots and the princesses kick –"

" _Rilla_!" Joy sharply interrupts.

"– behind," I finish with my sweetest of smiles.

Joy rolls her eyes at me, but Ken laughs. "Of course they do."

"It's not just princess movies either. George's favourite is Aristocats."

"Aristo- _cats_?" Ken repeats, his brow knitting back into a frown.

Taking a deep breath, I mean to explain, but then catch sight of Joy's expression – one eyebrow carefully and meaningfully arched – and decide against it after all. "You know what? I'll show it to you sometime."

"Good idea," commends another voice and I turn my head to see Dan enter the hallway. Stretching out a hand towards Ken, he introduces himself. "Daniel Raine. I'm Joy's husband. You can just call me Dan, if you want."

I breathe a silent sigh of relief. I can always rely on Dan not to overcomplicate matters needlessly.

"Ken," answers Ken and takes the proffered hand.

(Sometimes I think it must be weird not to have a last name at all. According to Wikipedia, when King Victor did away with the old, German-sounding name of the royal house back during the first world war, they just became 'of the United Kingdom', no other name required. In school, Ken was filed under Kenneth England, much as that apparently aggravated the Scots.)

"I've shepherded our offspring into the dining room," Dan informs Joy after having shaken Ken's hand. "I won't vouch for how long they stay inside it though."

"Best to get ourselves to dinner then," Joy decides with a long-suffering sigh at the thought of her children.

But when we turn towards the dining room, Joy quickly reaches out a hand, laying it on my arm to stop me. Allowing the men to walk ahead of us, she bends her head closer to me.

" _What_?" I whisper.

Joy shakes her head. "Nothing. You. You're glowing."

Quickly, I throw a look over my shoulder, but the men are thankfully already out of earshot. "Look, whatever you've got into your head, I'm not – not – not –" But the word won't pass my lips.

Joy grins. "Looks like someone napped during sex ed! But I assure you that no-one ever got pregnant from saying the word."

"Are _you_ really going to lecture _me_ about napping during sex ed?" I shoot back pointedly.

"Touché," concedes Joy, slightly inclining her head.

Folding my arms across my chest and tilting my chin forward, I look at her challengingly. "I'm really not, though. Just to make that clear."

"Never thought you were," Joy placates. "I just meant… you're glowing with happiness when you're around him. I haven't seen you like this ever since –"

"Can we _not_ talk about that right now?" I interrupt, feeling annoyed. " _Please_?"

Joy nods, sighing softly. "Sure. It's just… I'm happy for you, and anyone can see he's smitten with you as well, but… when I think of last time…"

"It's not like last time. _I'm_ not who I was last time," I reply when she trails off. "Look. I'm happy. He's happy. Let's just leave it at that, alright?" But the annoyance is gone. I know it's just because she cares.

It takes a moment, but finally, Joy nods, reaching out to briefly touch my face as she does. "Alright."

"Great. Now let's go eat," I request, looping my arm through hers and pulling her along into the direction of the dining room.

Just before we enter it, Joy suddenly stops, forcing me into a halt as well. I just want to ask what's it _now_ , when she leans her head close to mine once more and whispers conspiratorially, "He's even more handsome in real life."

"I know, right?" I murmur back, pressing my lips together to keep down a smile that is nevertheless breaking through at the edges.

Instead of replying, Joy just wiggles her eyebrows at me in a _very_ meaningful way and when we enter the dining room, we're both still laughing.

"Care to share the joke?" Dan asks mildly.

With a challenging look in Joy's direction, I open my mouth to answer, but she beats me to it. "Not particularly," she answers breezily. "Now, who wants dinner?"

As it turns out, everyone wants dinner. Maybe with the exception of Jake, who I haven't seen before today and who looks rather subdued. As I take my seat next to Ken, I try to catch his eye, but Jake resolutely stares down at his empty plate.

Not able to shake a feeling of concern, but unable to do anything about it now, I sit down, accepting the glass of wine Dan hands me to go with the soup. (And suppressing a smile when I meet Ken's eye and he directs a tiny nod at the wine.)

Despite all the nervousness going around earlier, dinner proves to be a fairly relaxed affair. Jake remains quiet and Izzie seems somewhat bored, keeping herself occupied by offering random observation without any context once in a while, but Joy is naturally chatty and both Ken and Dan know how to keep a friendly conversation going, so we do without any awkward silences at least.

Nor do we enter any treacherous waters, or at least we don't until Dan makes an offhand remark about the police officers who had a look through their flat this morning. I know he doesn't mean anything by it, but Ken sighs anyway.

"I'm sorry for inconveniencing you like that," he apologises. "But when my PPOs deem it necessary, there's little I can say to stop them. And I have even less control over the US agents they make me take along on top of my normal protection detail whenever I'm stateside."

Dan quickly shakes his head. "It was fine. No trouble at all."

Joy, taking a bite of green beans, looks pensive. "Where are they now, by the way? These – what did you call them? PPOs?"

Ken shrugs. "Waiting outside in the car. One of them might be lurking outside the front door of your flat and they sometimes like to send another one up the fire escape."

He says it matter-of-factly, because to him, this is nothing _but_ a fact, but I feel myself tense anyway. Because to Joy, it smells of exactly the kind of inequality she abhors.

Obviously having followed a similar train of thought, Dan reaches out a hand to gently touch Joy's elbow. She takes a deep breath. "Shouldn't we maybe invite them upstairs?" she suggests. "There's plenty of food left."

For a moment, no-one answers, but then Ken carefully places his cutlery next to his plate and turns to face Joy. When he speaks, his voice his perfectly amiable, but there's that sliver of steel concealed beneath it that I've encountered before and that I know to mean that he won't be swayed in his opinion.

"This is your home, Joy, and you can invite anyone you want," he begins. "Nevertheless, I must respectfully ask you to reconsider. For one, they are professionals and I can't see them taking you up on your offer. For another, you must realise that these men are not my friends. Some I like better and some not so much, but all of them are effectively employees. They are paid to do a job – and paid well, I might add – and a job is what they are doing. I wasn't asked whether I wanted them to follow my every step, but they do and in consequence, they know more about my life than I am sometimes comfortable with. I can escape them rarely enough as it is and frankly, the last thing I want is to share my dinner with them."

Joy nods slowly, blinking once or twice as she processes this. "Yes, I see. Under those circumstances, I won't invite them in."

"Thank you," Ken replies simply, taking up his cutlery again.

But Joy, being Joy, just can't leave well enough alone. Ignoring the glare I throw her over the table, she asks, "When you're at Rilla's place… do they also stay in the car all – well, the entire time?"

 _All night_ , she meant to say and I intensify the glare daggers I direct at her.

"This is hardly any of your –" I start, but Ken silences me with a short shake of the head and a reassuring smile.

"They did at first," he answers calmly into Joy's direction. "Nowadays, they have a small apartment rented out on the ground floor of a house across the street."

Huh?

I must say this is news to me.

Not that it matters, of course. I've always known they stick close to my flat whenever Ken is there and I suppose an apartment is a more comfortable place to be in than having to spend night after night in a car. I probably should have guessed they'd find a way to get out of those cars at some point.

But some of my surprise must have shown on my face, for Ken leans over to me to say something. What he meant to say, however, I will never know, for Jake takes just this moment to break his silence.

"And who pays for all of it?" he asks.

" _Jake_!" hisses Joy. The rest of us are too surprised to speak.

"It's a valid question," Jake defends himself. "I guess it's paid for by taxpayer's money, isn't it?"

Ken places the cutlery down again. "I didn't realise you paid taxes yet, Jake," he replies in a friendly tone.

Not that Jake responds well to it at all. Stubbornly tilting his chin to the side, he insists, "I don't. But many people do. I just wonder whether they know how their money is being used."

"Jacob!" Dan intervenes firmly.

His son throws him a rebellious look, his lips pressed together tightly. "May I be excused?" he asks, but doesn't even wait for an answer before he pushes his chair back and rushes out of the room.

We remain behind, all of us too stunned for reaction for a moment or two. (All of us except for Izzie, I should say. She has apparently repurposed her baby carrots into toys, playing with them quietly. If I caught that right, the mother of her carrot family has been blessed with the resounding name of Ernestine.)

The wordless conversation between Joy and Dan makes out Jake's father as the one to follow his son, while Joy turns to Ken to apologise. "I'm sorry for that. I don't know what's gotten into him."

Ken shakes his head. "It's fine. Don't worry. It's entirely possible that I said something to upset him. There's a reason why they usually roll out Teddy for engagements involving children." The last of which, he says with a self-deprecating little smile.

Joy, apparently thankful for this change of subject, latches on to it immediately. "You all have preferred sorts of engagements?"

"Sure, we do," shrugs Ken. "Teddy covers history-related things, all artsy stuff and anything that involves getting touchy-feely with people – children, the elderly or anyone in need, really. Persis gets sports, animals, nature and the outdoors. I have military, tech and science, business, and any political or diplomatic events that my father is either too busy or important to do or that, on the other hand, are too controversial for him."

"What do you mean by 'too controversial'?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Another shrug from Ken. "There are some people out there who are considered too politically controversial for the King to meet them openly. Bad press, you see? Sometimes though, they still have to be met and in those cases, they tend to send me. So, my father meets the President of France himself, but when someone is needed to receive the representative of some semi-dictatorial country, the choice usually falls on me."

On the other side of the table, Joy opens her mouth, but I beat her to it. "Jo-oy," I sing-song, keeping my voice light, but knowing that Joy won't miss the warning.

She doesn't either. Closing her mouth again, she nods slightly and raises both hands, palms towards me, in a show of deference to my request.

Ken, however, anticipated what she was going to say anyway. "It's politics," he explains. "I don't like some of the people I have to meet, but when I'm asked to by the government of the day, it's my job to go and do it."

"Ugh," makes Joy, not being able to help herself. (Izzie looks up interested at this uncommon way her mother chose to express herself.)

Thankfully, Ken just laughs. "Yes, sometimes, that's the only way to describe it."

Doubly thankfully, Dan choses that moment to enter again. When Joy raises her eyebrows at him questioningly, he shakes his head. "He won't speak to me."

Joy moves to rise, but I hold up a hand to stop her and scrape my own chair back. "May I?"

"Sure," she agrees, sitting down again. As I pass her, I give her a warning look that I know she knows to mean to steer clear of politics while I'm gone, and while her smile is accompanied by a slight eye roll, I decide to trust in it anyway. (And even if not, Ken's more than capable of holding his own. He rarely slips into diplomatic mode when just around me, but when he does, it's always apparent he's been schooled in it all his life.)

Softly knocking on Jake's door as I reach it, I wait for an answer, but none comes. When I open the door anyway, I am immediately met by an angry, "Get out!" Not that I listen to it, of course. I've been doing stubbornness both longer and better than Jake.

Slipping into the room and closing the door behind me, I walk over to the bed where Jake lies on his stomach, his face turned to the wall. When I gently touch his back, he swats my hand away.

"What's the matter, Huckleberry Jake?" I ask carefully.

"Don't call me that!" he snaps, turning halfway to look at me angrily. The tip of his nose is suspiciously red and his eyes look decidedly watery, much as he tries to blink it away.

I sigh softly. "Why are you sad, Jakey?"

"I'm not sad," he protests. "I'm angry."

It doesn't look like that to me, but at least he's talking, so I go with it. "Okay. Why are you angry then?"

Wiping his nose with a sleeve, Jake throws me another irritated look for good measure, but he does answer. "At _him_. I don't like him. He's smarmy."

He's said it to provoke me, I know. But the truth is, I can see how Ken, when he is _on_ , might appear not very genuine to a boy like Jake. There's a controlled amiability about Ken that was no doubt honed in years of public service and it was partly on show tonight. For all that, I don't think that's Jake's only problem though.

"But I like him. Do you think you might try and be nice to him for my sake?" I ask him gently.

Snuffling loudly, Jake glowers at me. "No. He's stupid."

Okay. This definitely runs deeper than just Ken not connecting all that well to children of Jake's nature.

Once again, I reach out a hand to touch Jake and once again, he swipes it away angrily. Sighing, I pull my hand back. "Why is he stupid, Jakey?"

But instead of answering, Jake turns back to facing the wall. For a moment, there's silence, but then I hear him sniffing quietly. Feeling a little helpless, I start to gently rub his back and this time, he lets me.

"What is it?" I ask quietly.

Jakes takes some seconds to answer, and when he does, his voice is muffled by the pillow. "He's taking you away from us."

So, there's the rub.

I take a deep breath. "He's doing no such thing."

"Yes he is!" sobs Jake, still turned away from me. "You only come when Mum and Dad are both out and they need someone to look after us. You never see us because you want to anymore. And Mum said to Dad that it's because you're spending time with _him_."

Looking down at the crying boy next to me, I have no idea what to say. "I always want to see you, Jake," I try anyway. "It's just that I like seeing Ken as well and sometimes, it's hard to see both of you as much as I want to."

"You never stopped seeing us when you were with the others!" accuses Jake with a sniffle.

He's right, too. Tristan and Eric, I could incorporate into my life as it was. When I went out with friends, I took them along, or I met them in the dining hall for a quick lunch between classes. With Ken, I'm living two separate lives in the time allotted for one and much as I try to keep it all together, I can only ever be at one place at any one time.

But how to explain that to Jake? He's hurt and no rational explanation will be good enough to make the hurt go away.

"I'm sorry, Jake," I whisper. "I'm really sorry. Won't you look at me, please?"

Several moments pass and just when I think he's ignoring me, Jake suddenly turns around and launches himself into my arms, his own arms closing tightly around my neck. I hold him close, swaying him slightly and gently stroking his back as he cries into my shoulder.

We stay like that for minutes, until Jake's sobs slowly subside, his body relaxing against mine. I try to move slightly, to see whether he's alright, but he keeps his hold on me, his face burrowed against my shoulder.

When he does speak, his voice is so quiet that I almost miss it. "Are you moving to England, Aunt Rilla?"

Startled, I give a surprised laugh. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Jake moves back a little so I can see his tear-stained face. "He's from there, isn't he? And he can't move here forever. So, you must move there."

I open my mouth and, having nothing to answer, close it again. This, I repeat at least three times under Jake's watchful gaze, before finally coming up with, "I'm not moving to England, Jakey."

"Never? Do you promise?" he implores.

Swallowing heavily, I look down at his face. His sweet, dear, trusting face. "I promise that I love you, Huckleberry Jake. And I promise, no matter where I am, I will always be there for you when you need me. Alright?" My own voice is suddenly thick with feeling.

A long moment passes as Jake, in return, studies my own face. Then, finally, he nods. "Alright."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Revolution' (written by John Lennon, released by The Beatles in 1968)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
Piece of my Heart _is a good one! It's been covered so often that there must be a version for everyone out there, but mine will always have Janis Joplin on vocals. She had a difficult life, but her voice was absolutely unique.  
I must confess to never having watched a single episode of either Games or Thrones or Lost. I don't watch all that much TV in general, but I think Rilla is someone to have several favourite TV shows, so I took myself over to Wikipedia and did research ;).  
You're definitely right in that Ken is slowly getting closer to her family. He isn't a part of it yet, but they're generally welcoming to him and he's on his best behaviour. Which, of course, also skews things somewhat, as his family remains an absolute mystery right now, but one thing at a time :).  
Whew, those are a lot of subjects! I would happily do English and History, but that's about that. And I totally feel you about your elective. Back during my last two years at school, I took Advanced Maths and, well... let's just say that it wasn't the best decision I ever made. I like maths, but it turned out that Advanced Maths was harder than Normal Maths. Who would have thought, right? ;)  
Hoping those first exams went well for you! How long until you're done with them?  
_

 _To wow:_  
 _Happy to know you're still reading :).  
You aren't the only one who wants to whack Rilla over the head for how naïve she's being and how she tries to close her eyes to the realities of her situation. Count me in among the people who sometimes feel a need to shake her. But I'm trying to write this Rilla as being consistent with canon Rilla. Without the war forcing her to grow up, she still retains many of the more frivolous aspects of her nature at the point in the story. She loves life, but she doesn't much like planning it or thinking too hard about it - not even when she would actually be well-advised to do so. She's _definitely _got a steep learning curve ahead of her, but for now, she's still the way she is. But that's actually a major point of this story for me. I don't see it primarily as a love story, but more of a 'coming of age'-one (though of course, Rilla already is of age, technically speaking). To me, this is really a story about a young woman finding herself under extraordinary circumstances. That there's a handsome prince involved is incidental ;).  
I promise we'll get to the monetary aspect of Rilla's life and we'll also get to both her studies (which she isn't spending nearly as much time on as she should) and her professional future. Rilla herself might not care about that so very much at this point, but there are people who do care and who won't allow her to weasel out of that conversation just like that. (And yes, by "people", I totally mean Gilbert. Look out for him in 3-4 chapters' time!)  
As you said, her family is going to have to shoulder a lot of backlash once that relationship becomes public, without getting any of the perks. And yes, that will lead to conflict. At present, they're supportive and gently concerned, but once it all starts to intrude on their own lives as well, not everyone will be as understanding (nor should they be!). For now, they have no reason not to be happy about Rilla being happy, but I also hope that this chapter gave you a bit more of the Joy you wanted to see ;). She is _trying _to be supportive for Rilla's sake, but this entire concept of royalty does go against her inherent beliefs and she can't (and won't) hide it. And I do think she isn't the only one having an opinion on Rilla throwing in her lot with an institution as archaic as the British Royal Family.  
_


	20. There's so many different worlds

_New York City, USA  
May 2011_

 **There's so many different worlds**

Idly looking through Facebook as I walk, I scroll past pictures of Miranda's newest baking endeavours, of the lastest posh party Seraphina was dragged to by her mum and of Nan and Jerry picnicking in some park or another. Wondering whether the pictures warrant some teasing comment about how very 'bad romcom' a picnic in a public park is, I am suddenly stopped dead in my tracks by the notification that pops up next.

 _Betty Mead got engaged to Liam Crawford._

Betty? Engaged?

When did _that_ happen?

Nan and her picnic immediately forgotten, my fingers fly over the screen as I type out a message to Betty instead.

 _Congratulations, darling! I'm so happy for you. You must tell me_ everything _!_

Life pulled us into different directions and we aren't in touch nearly as often as we both mean to anymore, but back during school, Betty and I were the very bestest of friends. I was the one who helped her dress for her first date with Liam, brother of our classmate Mollie. I was the one who covered for her when she first spent the night at his place (with his parents and Mollie out of town to see his grandparents). And I was also the one who took him to task about dancing two dances in a row with Cherry at our graduation. I'm rarely in Halifax anymore, but during the early days, I was definitely godmother to that relationship.

A beep of my phone indicates Betty's answer and I open it eagerly.

 _Thank you! It only happened last night. It was sooo romantic. I'm so happy it's unreal!_

I bet she is. Liam is cute. Bit quiet sometimes, but the kind of guy you know you can rely on.

 _I demand an in-depth retelling! Just so we're clear ;)._

While waiting for Betty's answer, I slowly start walking again. I'm happy for Betty, it's true, but I there's also a surreal quality to it. How can anyone I attended school with, already be old enough to be getting married?

Shaking off the thought, I look at Betty's answer popping up on my screen.

 _All the details, I promise! I have to run though. We're having dinner with his and my parents and I still have to get ready. Chat later tonight?_

Looking up at my apartment building, to which my feet have carried me, I hesitate.

 _Busy tonight. I'll call you tomorrow. Have a great evening!_

Betty's answer comes within two seconds.

 _Sure, no problem. Big hug! :)_

I don't know how I came to deserve a big hug, even a virtual one, but Betty sounds as if she's ready to embrace the world, so it might just be that.

Slipping my phone into my bag and getting hold of my keys instead, I take up the usual fight with the front door, my mind still occupied with thoughts of Betty. Rationally, I know that she's twenty-two and he's twenty-four and that it's perfectly legal and possibly even sensible to get married at that age, but even so… marrying sounds like an awfully grown up thing to do.

"Marilla."

Startled, I whip my head around.

Mrs Weisz stands in her doorway and eyes me calmly.

"Hello Mrs Weisz," I greet, letting go of a breath. "How do you do?"

She inclines her head to accept the greeting, then steps back and invites me inside her flat with a wave of her head. "Come in, please."

She is, I have to admit, yet another person for whom I haven't been making as much time as I ought to ever since meeting Kenneth. I still get her groceries and keep her in romance novels from the library, but our coffee chats have become few and far between. It's just that Mrs Weisz, maybe alone among the people in my life, has never once complained about it, which why her sudden insistence confuses me.

"I'm sorry. I can't," I apologise, feeling genuine regret. "I'm expecting a visitor."

Mrs Weisz nods. "Your gentleman friend is already here and waiting for you inside," she informs me crisply.

I blink, now utterly confused. What is Ken doing in Mrs Weisz's flat?

(The morbid part of my brain can't help noting that, were Mrs Weisz not Mrs Weisz and this a thriller instead, I'd probably find Ken cut up and dead in her living room. But the rational brain part knows that his hitmen would never let that happen. At least I'm reasonably sure they wouldn't.)

Gingerly following Mrs Weisz into her flat and through to the kitchen, I indeed see a – very alive – Ken sitting at her kitchen table, coffee cup in front of him and wearing an expression as puzzled as I feel.

"Sit down, Marilla," orders Mrs Weisz and I plop down on a chair, too perplexed to argue.

As Mrs Weisz busies herself with making me coffee as well, I lean over to Ken. "How long have you been here?" I whisper.

"Couple of minutes," he murmurs back.

I nod slowly. " _Why_ are you here?"

"I don't know," he mutters. "She told me to come inside, pointed me to a seat and gave me coffee. Then she stood by the window until she saw you come home."

Placing a coffee cup in front of me, Mrs Weisz sits down between us and looks from one to the other, appearing quite pleased with herself.

"Won't you introduce us, Marilla?" she asks after a moment.

I swallow heavily. "Um, Ken, Mrs Weisz. Mrs Weisz, Kenneth."

Mrs Weisz fixes her eyes on Ken. "Kenneth," she repeats, rolling the name on her tongue. "What does it mean? Kenneth?"

Ken's questioning glance finds mine, but I can only shrug. I have no idea what this is about either.

"It depends," he answers slowly. "It derives from two distinct Scottish names. One means _fire_ , the other – well, the other means _handsome_."

Is it just me or do I see the back of his neck colouring slightly? Quickly, I take a sip of coffee to hide my smile, burning my tongue for the effort.

Mrs Weisz considers him very seriously for several moments before declaring, "Yes, yes. Good, good." Ken's neck becomes a little redder still.

(He's usually so suave in everything that, despite the oddness of this entire situation, I can't help feel amused that it's Mrs Weisz from Brooklyn, lover of good coffee and romance novels, who managed to make the Prince of Wales blush.)

"What are your intentions towards Marilla?" asks Mrs Weisz, voice entirely pleasant, and just like that, the smile is wiped from my face.

"Uh…" Ken trails off, his eyes meeting mine, a slightly panicked look in them. I can, once more, do nothing but shrug.

"Your intentions," Mrs Weisz repeats patiently.

Ken nods and visibly gulps. "Look, I… I mean…"

(Now she's not only made him blush but rendered him speechless as well. All in the space of a minute. Must be some kind of record. I'd laugh, but I don't much feel like laughing anymore.)

Deciding to jump to his aid, I pull the conversation back towards me. "Mrs Weisz, I really appreciate your concern for me, but it's really not… we're just… see, I'm much too young to…" But the word lodges in my throat, refusing to be spoken.

(And there's the unbidden thought in my mind that Betty, despite being a mere five months older than me, apparently _is_ old enough to, well, get _married_ , but I shove it resolutely to the side. It's not helping right now.)

"Of course you are," agrees Mrs Weisz, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and clucks her tongue at me. "Far too young."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and on the other side of the table, can see Ken's shoulders sack slightly as some of the tension leaves him as well.

But Mrs Weisz is suddenly peering at me suspiciously, "I hope you're not planning anything foolish?"

Anything - ?

Oh.

Oh goodness!

"No. No. Not at all. Nothing foolish," I promise, the words stumbling over themselves in my rush to get them out.

"Good." Mrs Weisz nods briskly, before turning to face Ken again. "I still want to ask whether your intentions are honourable. Marilla's parents are far away and someone needs to make sure you are not mistreating her, young man."

 _Young man_?

Does she even…?

Startled, I sit up straighter.

Mrs Weisz, as I well know, doesn't leave her flat anymore and lives in a world created by her romance novels. She's mentioned before that she's too old for all the nastiness going on in the world, which is why she hasn't picked up a newspaper in years and only keeps a TV to dust it off periodically. It could very well be that she really _doesn't_ know.

Doesn't know _who_ he is. Doesn't know _what_ he is.

"I… I'm not… mistreating her or anything," stutters Ken. His eyes seek mine, but I'm too distracted by my epiphany to react to it.

"Hmm," makes Mrs Weisz thoughtfully. "And do you have a job? You are not living off her, are you?"

With effort, I force down the hysterical giggle rising within me. Ken looks like he's wondering which rabbit hole he fell through when entering this flat.

"I'm asking, because I didn't miss how much time you spent here even when the heating was broken," elaborates Mrs Weisz, sounding very reasonable indeed. "It made me wonder whether you have your own place to stay?"

"I do," Ken quickly assures, obviously relieved not be grilled about his job anymore. "I do have my own place. I just like it here."

Mrs Weisz makes a dubious sound and peers at him closely. Ken moves slightly on his chair, before picking up his cup and emptying its contents in one go. I'm fairly sure he does it mostly to escape her scrutinising gaze, but the moment he sets the cup down again, Mrs Weisz snatches it up and gets to her feet to fill it up again.

Ken takes the moment to lean toward me over the table and murmur, "What's she playing at?"

"I don't know," I whisper back. "But I think she really doesn't know who you are."

He stares. Blinks. Blinks again.

When she sets his re-filled cup down in front of him, he looks at her as if at a revelation. Then, slowly, the most brilliant of smiles spreads over his face. "Thank you ever so much, Mrs Weisz!"

But it's not the coffee he's thanking her for. It's for a much greater gift. Normalcy.

Mrs Weisz looks a bit nonplussed at his sudden exuberance, but takes it in her stride. "You're welcome, young man."

Ken's smile, if possible, widens at being addressed such. He takes up the cup, takes a gulp, burns his tongue and not even _that_ is enough to get him to stop smiling.

The rest of the afternoon passes in the blink of an eye. Ken is almost giddy in his excitement at being normal for once and it's really very endearing. He happily dissects the plot of her latest novel with Mrs Weisz in detail and empties the steady stream of refilled coffee cup she places in front of him without complaint. Mrs Weisz, thus mellowed, even stops needling him about his intentions or his earning power. In short, they get on like a house on fire.

When, after two and a half hours, I decide it's time to go, I actually have to struggle to separate them, finally almost shoving Ken out of the door. Mrs Weisz only lets him go after he promises to come back – and soon.

Ken makes it up two flights of stairs, before he stops suddenly and bursts out laughing.

"Enjoyed yourself, did you?" I ask mildly, watching him indulgently from three of steps above. (I don't think I want to know how much caffeine he currently has coursing through his veins.)

"I haven't had that much fun in a while," he admits and beams at me. "I've never had to justify how I earn a living before!" A beat, as he shakes his head incredulously. "She _really_ doesn't know, does she?"

"No. She really doesn't know," I confirm, unable to prevent a smile at how gleeful he is.

"She's great!" Ken declares as he climbs up the last steps to be level with me, engulfing me into his arms. "I see why you care so much for her."

I snuggle closer to him. "She liked you as well."

"She did, didn't she?" he asks eagerly. "Despite not knowing who I am!"

He looks perfectly delighted at the thought, but I feel a tiny twinge, realising that whenever he meets someone, he must always be wondering whether they put up with him for him or just because of his position.

I wonder when he decided I wasn't just in it because of the title?

"The plot of that novel was bonkers though," Ken muses thoughtfully, a hand absent-mindedly stroking my back. "Are all romance novels this bonkers?"

"Mostly," I confirm. "In fact, they are mostly just similar, full stop. There's a formula to be followed with romance novels."

"Doesn't that make them terribly predictable?" he wonders, sounding puzzled at the thought.

I nod, shrug. "Yes. I think that's partly the point."

He mulls that over for a moment. "Curious," he finally decides. Then, nodding his head towards the rest of the stairs, he asks, "Shall we go upstairs?"

But I remain rooted to the spot, keeping him there with me.

"Actually…" I begin, trailing off almost immediately.

Ken peers down at me. "Actually?" he prompts.

"Actually, I was wondering why it is that we only ever stay at my place," I admit, feeling a bit nervous.

Because Mrs Weisz wasn't the first one to have questioned his decision to stay in my freezing flat back in January instead of just inviting me over to his place. Di did, too, when I mentioned it, and kept harping on about it until Nan told her to shut up.

"I said, didn't I? I like it here," answers Ken, frowning slightly.

"Better than at your own place?" I ask, feeling more than a little sceptical when I think of my tiny Shoebox with its dodgy heating and the trickling shower.

Ken nods earnestly. "It's cosy. My place… it's fancy, I suppose, but it came furnished and it looks the part. It feels like a hotel. Yours is a home."

It sounds so logical, the way he says it, and I silently curse Di for planting the doubt in my head in the first place.

"We can go there though, if you want," Ken offers, tapping a finger against the tip of my nose.

And part of me feels foolish at insisting after he gave such an easy, yet heartfelt explanation, but the other part… well, if my childhood friend is getting married, shouldn't I at least know how my boyfriend lives? (Not taking into account that over the pond, his life certainly looks utterly different again.)

So, I nod.

With a shrug, Ken lets go of me and takes out his phone. Taking a few steps downstairs again, he quietly speaks into it and for a moment, this puzzles me, but then I realise he has to inform his MATH about the change in plans.

When he slips back the phone into his pocket, he turns to look at me. "I'm taking the bike. You wait here for another ten minutes before coming out, alright? There's a blue Honda sedan waiting around the curb. The driver is called Hanson. He'll take you to my apartment."

I hadn't realised that us relocating to his place would be such an operation, but I suppose I ought to have. He might have gotten a taste of normalcy down there in Mrs Weisz's flat, but he isn't _really_. Nothing in his life is ever as simple as it's for the rest of us.

Reaching out a hand, Ken grabs hold of one of mine, raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss to it. "See you later." Says it, let's go of my hand, and bounces down the stairs again. (That caffeine high is still going strong, I see.)

Using my allotted ten minutes of waiting time to head upstairs quickly, exchange my college bag for a smaller handbag (stuffing my toothbrush and a clean pair of panties into it as I do) and set out food to an absent George, I still manage to be out on the street, rounding the corner, just when Ken told me to be. Just as he said, there's indeed a nondescript blue Honda sedan waiting for me. After a second of hesitation and with not a person in sight, I open the door myself and slide into the back seat.

The driver looks at me through the rear mirror. "Miss," he greets, tipping his head slightly.

"Evening," I reply, trying for a smile.

And these, for the entire journey to Downtown Manhattan, remain the only two words we exchange, with only the radio filling the silence in the car.

Watching the city go past through tinted windows, I try to imagine what Ken's place might look like, but whenever I picture him it's always my apartment he's in, standing at the kitchenette to whip up dinner, lounging on the bed while watching a show or sitting on the toilet lid to talk to me while I do my make-up. The mere attempt to imagine him somewhere else feels somehow weird to me.

When the driver – Hanson? – finally pulls into an underground garage somewhere in Manhattan where the buildings are dizzyingly high confectionaries of steel and glass, and where I don't usually have any business to be, I must admit to being slightly nervous.

Hanson stops the car down in the garage, indicating for me to get out. When I do, he's already beside the car as well, silently pointing me to a set of doors some steps away, which, after he types something into a keypad, reveal themselves to be hiding an elevator.

It's not the top floor we ride up to, but very nearly. When the elevator doors open again, Hanson points me towards a door down the hall. "Over there, Miss."

I nod, swallow. "Thank you."

He tips two fingers to his temple, steps back into the elevator and just like that, I'm alone in the unfamiliar hall. Slowly walking up to the indicated door, I hesitate before raising my hand and knocking gingerly.

I half expect it to be opened by a stranger, but it's just Ken on the other side, smiling at me, and I feel the tension leave my shoulders. The surroundings might be different, but he's still the same.

"Come in," he invites, stepping back to allow me to enter the apartment.

And what an apartment it is!

Like the building from the outside, the apartment is all polished steel and glass, with some monochrome leather here and there. It's also huge. The living room alone is several times the size of my Shoebox. And the view is… well, 'utterly breath-taking' wouldn't be an overstatement. We're above most other buildings in the vicinity and as I step closer to the large windows, Manhattan stretches out beneath my feet in a way I don't think I've ever seen before. (Or at least not since that time Mum and Dad came to visit and we went up the Empire State Building.)

Ken comes up behind me, nuzzling my neck. "See why I prefer your place?"

Can't say I do, no.

"Ken, this is…" Robbed of words, I raise a hand to indicate the view in front of us instead.

He raises his head to look outside the window as well. "Oh, well, I suppose this _is_ quite nice. But they're just buildings and they don't ever change. It's the same old view every day. You don't really look at it anymore after a week or two."

I'm fairly sure that if I lived here, I'd spent half an hour a day just standing here and staring out the windows, but then, _my_ windows face a grubby backyard and the grey backside of a hideous apartment block.

Ken drops a kiss on my neck and steps away from me, taking off my coat as he does. "Are you hungry? There's a pretty good Spanish restaurant down the road. I could send someone to fetch us some tapas," he suggests, as he hangs my coat over the back of a chair. Taking my handbag from me as well, he tosses it over to lie on a white leather couch that I hardly dare _look_ at for fear of staining it.

"Tapas are fine," I agree, turning to face him. "Do they also have churros, by any chance? The real kind? Americans make them all wrong, but the Spanish kind are amazing. I practically lived on them when I was in Madrid!"

Smiling at my expression, Ken lightly brushes the back of his hand along my cheek. "I'll ask whether they have churros. The real kind, of course."

Feeling childish, I stick out my tongue at him, making him laugh. "I'll be back in a second," he promises, picking up his phone from a table by the front door and disappearing into what I think is the kitchen.

I just want to turn back to the windows to stare at the view some longer, when my own phone rings. For a moment, I consider _letting_ it ring, but it sounds persistent, so I walk over to the very white leather couch, rummage through my bag (without actually touching the couch, mind) and pull out the phone.

Caller ID reveals it to be Shirley. Shirley, who hardly ever calls me.

"Shirl?" I ask, raising the phone to my ear. "What's wrong?"

"You're asking _me_ that?" comes his voice. "What's wrong with _you_?"

Shirley almost never uses italics. That he's now used two in a row tells me that he must be agitated.

"Nothing is wrong," I assure. "I'm fine. But what's the matter with you? Why did you call? Are Mum and Dad alright?"

"You set off your alarm," Shirley answers, ignoring my other questions.

Huh? Which alarm?

"The app I helped you install back in January," he clarifies. "Remember?"

Oh. That.

I do remember it. In fact, I've used it a couple of times since then. I never set off the alarm though and I certainly didn't do it now.

But when I lower the phone for a second to look at the screen, I see the small dark blue icon in the upper corner, indicating that the app is, indeed, active. My only explanation is that the phone got jostled when Ken tossed the bag, activating the app – and without a finger to keep it quiet, it raised an alarm, to be heard all the way in Shirley's bedroom in Halifax.

"Sorry, Shirl," I apologise after having raised the phone to my ear again. "Must have been an accident. I didn't mean to alarm you. Literally."

On the other end of the line, Shirley makes a sceptical sound. "Are you sure? You haven't been dragged anywhere against your will? If you can't speak clearly, just tell me the name of Jem's dog if you're in any danger."

At this, I can't help laughing. "You've been watching too many spy thrillers, Shirley! I'm fine, I promise. No-one dragged me anywhere."

"You're in Manhattan," he points out. "In what seems to be a very expensive piece of real estate, I might add."

"Yes, I am," I confirm with a smile "And let me tell you, the view is amazing."

Ken choses that moment to walk into the living room again, raising an eyebrow quizzically as he sees me on the phone. I shake my head and give a small eye roll to tell him it's nothing serious.

"Well, if you're sure…" remarks Shirley, clearly still not totally convinced.

"I'm sure," I promise. "I'm as good as I've ever been." And then, with a glance at Ken, I add, "I'm nowhere I don't want to be, and with no one I don't want to be with. Just the opposite, in fact. Just the very opposite."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Brothers in Arms' (written by Mark Knopfler, released by Dire Straits in 1985)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Ah, choosing 'Revolution' for that chapter amused me greatly, so I'm glad you picked up on that ;). And Jake probably could overthrow a monarchy, but he also loves his Aunt Rilla quite a bit, so maybe that'll be enough to make him direct his attentions elsewhere.  
I wouldn't necessarily trust Izzie's assessment of Ken's looks. They're both somewhat dark-haired, which to Izzie is likely resemblance enough ;). And you will be happy to know that, while she has no patience for baby dolls, Izzie has an entire armada of stuffed animals that take up about two thirds of her bed. Maybe three quarters. A lot, at any rate.  
Actually, I didn't really think much about making Joy take Dan's name, because where I live, that's still very much the norm. But for the sake of the story, let's say it was mostly just Joy being stubborn. Everyone was already on her case about her early pregnancy, her opinionated ancestors most of all, so when she married, she took his name as a kind of f*** y to them, to show them she was doing things _her _way and they just had to deal with it.  
I hadn't though about Jake resembling Walter before, but now that you mention it, he does have strokes of AoI-Walter, doesn't he? Which comes as a surprise, because I _so _have no handle on how to write Walter, but I love writing Jake ;).  
I've since written the chapter with Gilbert and it turned out he didn't want to be as strict as I wanted him to be. But he employed a nice bit of reverse psychology on Rilla and I think it worked. She's enough of a daddy's girl not to want to disappoint him, which is something he can (and does) use to everyone's advantage.  
Your friend was engaged to a real, proper prince? I _need _to know more about this!_

 _To wow:_  
 _Thank_ you _for reading and reviewing! And if you ever find something I don't have covered, please let me know, yes? :)  
Ah, I wouldn't say Rilla doesn't value hard work and/or education _at all _. She isn't academically minded and given the choice, she prefers the "less work, more play"- approach, but she's still her parents' daughter. She can work hard if she has to (see further her raising of Jims in canon), but right now, she's overwhelmed with the demands placed on her and something had to give. Working less for university was convenient, because there was no-one there to complain about it and the results of her lack of work weren't immediately apparent. But they will be and she will have to take notice! As for Ken, he's a curious case. He's had his whole life presented to him on a platter, just on strength of who he was born to (and when). He never had to work to achieve his royal position, that's for sure. But he did go to school, to university and spent several years in the army. Chances are, at some point in all those decades, he had to work to achieve something (I'm especially looking at his army years here). So, he's living an uber-privileged life, but even he must have encountered situations where he hasn't had everything handed to him. Even if they were probably few and far between ;).  
Joy was trying to be on her best behaviour for Rilla's sake! That she only needled Ken a little bit was actually her trying very hard to be good ;). Had she not resolved to be good, she probably _would _have made Ken discuss the inequality of the royal system with her - and you bet that Jake didn't come up with that tax money argument all on his own either!  
Yes, we should meet Tristan at some point. I'm genuinely curious though - what makes you think Rilla's relationship with Carl was passive? I totally agree that she has taken the passive part in her relationship with Ken (at least for the moment), but I'm curious what makes you think the same about her relationship with Carl. It would be great if you could share your thoughts, as I'm really interested in hearing them :)._


	21. And the waitress is practicing politics

_New York City, USA  
May 2011_

 **And the waitress is practicing politics**

"Rilla! Thank God you could make it!" Maureen, my boss, looks close to weeping with relief.

Truth is, I almost didn't come. I had an exam today that, objectively speaking, didn't go as well as I would have liked, and my original plan was to spend the evening eating copious amounts of comfort food and start cramming for the next exam. But then Maureen phoned to ask me to help out with a catering event tonight. Noticing my reluctance, she promised a significant bonus and that, in combination with my rather depleted bank account, sealed the deal.

"Tracy called in sick this morning and you were the only other waitress they would accept at such short notice," continues Maureen as she shoves me into the staff changing room, quite as if I didn't know the way.

She looks pretty frenzied, and I idly consider whether I should have held out for more money, but before I can make a comment to that effect, Maureen has already turned and hurried out of the room.

Raising both eyebrows, I look over towards Carolina, who answers with a shrug and a grin. "Big night," she remarks by way of explanation, shutting the door to her locker with a clank and slipping past me to follow Maureen out.

I remain behind, taking a moment to send a quick message to Tracy, telling her I hope she isn't very sick and that she'll be alright soon (it's all I dare, knowing that her bastard husband likely checks her phone), before I turn towards my locker and begin changing into my discreet black uniform for tonight's event.

I don't usually know Maureen to be this nervous before an event, but NYU has a host of famous alumni and though some of the most accomplished are recognised only by insiders, there are also a couple of Hollywood stars among them. From what I gather, it seems to be fashionable among them to drop out, rather than finish their degree, but some can still be convinced to attend the odd university-sponsored event for publicity.

Having changed, I leave the room as well, but before I can even make it to the kitchen, I have a platter of hors d'oeuvres pressed into my hands and am directed to the main dining room. When I enter, I find it to be already reasonably well-filled with mingling people in fancy evening wear.

A good waitress's principal talent is to remain invisible until called upon, so I spend the next couple of minutes moving silently between guests, offering them my platter of hors d'oeuvres and making sure to be gone before they can think of some individual request they'd like fulfilled. With events as big as these, we don't have time to carter to everyone's specific tastes.

I make quite good headway until someone suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me to the side. Feeling irritated, I turn (preparing to fend off some over-eager guest as I do), but feel my shoulders ease up when I see who it is.

"I didn't know you'd be waitressing here tonight!" exclaims Seraphina and smiles widely. She is wearing a heavily patterned cocktail dress with swirls of oranges and pinks and blues. Upon closer inspection, the print looks vaguely galaxy-like (galaxy as in outer space, I mean) and I'm sure Di would be able to identify the designer just by that alone, but to me, it just looks colourful and vaguely expensive.

Allowing my professionally pleasant smile to relax into a real one, I answer, "Neither did I. I'm replacing a colleague who called in sick."

"Exciting, isn't it?" asks Seraphina, but before I have a chance to ask what, exactly, is exciting about an evening of waitressing, she's already moved on to eyeing the food on my platter. "What do you have here?"

"Devilled egg with truffle shavings, Bloody Mary prawn cocktail on a cracker, and mini chicken Kiev with a walnut and vintage cheese-filling" I rattle off.

Seraphina laughs brightly. "Go figure! Have the eighties already called to ask for their food back?"

Wrinkling my nose slightly at the food on my platter, I can't help agreeing with her. I'm really no expert on fancy food, but even I know prawn cocktails to be passé.

"Ah, but we should have expected it, putting old Mabel at the helm of choosing the menu," adds Seraphina as she picks up a mini chicken. "And your chef did try his best to update her choices into something edible, I must give him that."

"He's good," I nod.

Because sometimes, when there's still food left at the end of a night, all of us staff meet up in the kitchen and make short shrift of it. Not that I would ever admit it to either Joy or Grandmother Marilla, but it's easily the best food I ever tasted. And since, judging from Seraphina's expression as she chews her mini chicken, today's offering is apparently nothing to sniff at, I send a quick wish to the heavens that this won't prove to be a hungry crowd either.

"How come you're here?" I ask Seraphina while watching her choose a prawn cracker. "Is this a DAR event?"

She shakes her head, while biting off the prawn's tail. "Not really. Some charity thing or another. But my mother knows Old Mabel and when she learned she was organising this event here, she bugged her until we got an invite."

Just as I want to ask what makes this particular event so special, there's a commotion at the entrance. Seraphina cranes her neck, her half-eaten prawn forgotten in her hand. "Looks like the main guest is finally here," she announces in a stage whisper.

"Who even _is_ the main guest? Did Angelina Jolie remember she attended Tisch for five minutes back in the nineties? And if so, did she bring Brad?" I enquire, only half-way sarcastic. (Tisch, of course, being short for _Tisch School of Arts_ , NYU's branch for media and performing arts.)

"Even better!" exclaims Seraphina, turning back to me with shining eyes. "It's –"

But before she can get the name out, my gaze falls upon a man I first saw dressed in a grumpy bumblebee costume all the way back on Halloween, and the pieces fall into place just like that.

 _Of course_.

Seraphina is still talking, but her words wash over me. Instead, I'm staring towards the entrance, waiting for the crowd to shift. When it finally does, I see him immediately.

He's in full prince mode, shaking all hands offered to him, nodding and smiling at people, and looking like a consummate professional. In short, he couldn't be more different from the man who engaged in (and lost) a play fight with George just yesterday morning, having gotten his hand suitably mauled in the process.

As if through cotton wool, Seraphina's voice drifts over to my ear. "… why my mother couldn't rest until she got us an invite? There was no way she'd let an opportunity to parade me in front of a real prince slip through her fingers. _I_ told her he wouldn't take any notice of me, but when does she ever listen?"

She says it with an easy laugh, popping the rest of her prawn into her mouth, but I feel my throat constrict. Because she has _no_ idea.

Watching Ken out of the corner of my eye, even as Seraphina continues talking, I can't help noticing that he, too, isn't giving his conversational partners his full attention. Oh, he's friendly and attentive enough, but I know him too well not to notice the quick looks he throws into the room every once in a while. Almost as if he…

Almost as if he were looking for something. Or _someone_.

A second later, his eyes find mine and his face lights up into the kind of smile that, even after all these months, still turns my knees to water.

But a good waitress is invisible. And that smile is anything but.

Lowering my head, I quickly duck behind Seraphina, fussing with my platter until I hope he has looked away. When I dare raise my head again and steal a quick glance his way, he is, indeed, back to talking to a vaguely familiar looking woman in hot pink satin (which she _really_ doesn't have the figure for), and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Turning to look at Seraphina, I see that her expression is one of puzzlement. "Did you just see that?" she asks with a frown.

Not trusting my voice to speak, I quickly shake my head, my fingers closing tighter around the platter in my hands.

"He looked over here and smiled. Almost as if he recognised someone," Seraphina relates slowly. It's apparent that her mind is going a mile a minute and I can feel myself panicking.

Thus, when I speak, I have to force the words around my heart beating in my throat. "Probably a misunderstanding. I bet someone like him meets lots of people all day. Maybe he thought you were someone he'd seen before?"

It's weak. I know it is. But it's the best I can come up with.

Seraphina doesn't look convinced. "Hmm… maybe…"

Scrambling for a better explanation and coming up with nothing, I find myself being rescued by a most unlikely saviour.

"Or maybe," drawls a voice, "he merely wondered why you were talking to the service staff?"

With an audible groan, Seraphina turns around to face Yseult. Yseult, who, apart from being Seraphina's cousin, is also twin sister to my ex-boyfriend Tristan and every bit as snobbish as her mother is.

"Do us a favour and go spread your poison elsewhere, will you?" Seraphina snaps back. I tighten my hold on my platter just a fraction more.

Yseult sniffs disdainfully. "I'm just saying. She isn't a very good waitress, is she? Hanging around here chatting with you instead of doing her job?"

And with a flash, I am reminded of how Yseult, even when I was dating her brother, never once addressed me directly. I was always 'she' or 'that girl', when she took note of me at all. If her mother is a piece of work, Yseult is nastiness personified.

Seraphina looks like she has some choice words sitting on the tip of her tongue, but really, the last thing I need is for them to start fighting and draw attention to us. So, I swivel to present my platter to Yseult and ask in my best waitress voice, "Would you like a devilled egg?"

In hindsight, offering her a prawn cocktail might have been a choice less laden with potential hidden messages, but I only realise it when Yseult throws me a most withering glance. With a huff – and without a devilled egg – she storms off in direction of the restrooms.

Grimacing, Seraphina looks after her. "God, she's awful!"

No argument there.

"Please tell me her mother isn't around here somewhere as well?" I ask weakly, because really, the last thing I need tonight is to come face to face with _that_ woman on top of everything else.

Thankfully, Seraphina shakes her head. "No, and thank heavens. Originally, Yseult wasn't supposed to come either, but my aunt offered my mother first dibs on our shared house on Martha's Vineyard for the next five years, if only we would take her along."

Thinking back on that Martha's Vineyard house, where Seraphina took me and Nia for a week during summer after first year, I remark, "A high price to pay."

"For that woman, no price is too high if it means having her daughter potentially thrown in the way of an honest to goodness prince," answers Seraphina with a shrug. "He's way out of her league, of course, but my aunt has long dreamed of a British aristocrat for Yseult, and he's the top price. Never mind that that didn't work out so well for those Gilded Age heiresses."

There's a hysterical giggle rising within me as I imagine what Seraphina would think of me dating Ken, considering she thinks herself and Yseult with their old family and fancy clothes and house on Martha's Vineyard not to be in his league, but I just about manage to swallow it down.

Instead, I offer up a weak smile and switch my platter from one hand to the other. "Be that as it may, she's right on one account: I'd better get back to work. If I don't, I might just drop dead from the glares my colleague is sending my way."

Because just because I was ignoring Bridget's increasingly irritated looks doesn't mean I didn't notice them.

Seraphina sighs heavily. "I wouldn't want that. But you're still the only sensible person I'm likely to speak to all evening."

"Likewise," I reply with a wry grin, drawing a laugh from her.

But despite the words, I make sure to steer clear of Seraphina for the rest of the evening (I _am_ here to work, after all) and she, considerate by nature, also keeps the contact to the odd discrete grimace or eye-roll she directs my way whenever I pass her.

Her mother doesn't acknowledge me past a polite nod and Yseult makes a point not to look at me at all. Which is absolutely fine, for a variety of reasons. I can live just fine without Yseult's attention or approval.

What does sting, however, is that after that first smile, Ken doesn't once look my way either. It's _sensible_ , of course, as I well know, but, well… It's just so strange, seeing him here, looking and acting every inch the prince, so close and yet as far removed as he's ever been. Because it's so obvious that he's the centre of the room, the axis, the one everyone revolves around. And I am, as Yseult so helpfully pointed out, just the waitress. The girl paid to hover by the side lines, platter of nibbles at the ready, but otherwise invisible.

It's not that I actually _want_ him to get me noticed, which is why I, myself, make a point to stay far away from him. _I_ can look at him all I want (because seriously, half the people in here are looking his way at any given time), but if he were to be caught looking my way too often, it could well get people thinking. Evidently, it does not do to have people thinking about why the Prince of Wales would be looking at a mere waitress.

Still, I can't help a weird pang as I watch Seraphina in her expensive outer space-dress get formally introduced to him. He moves on after less than a minute of small-talk and when she turns to grin at me excitedly behind his back, I muster my best encouraging smile, but I still feel my stomach clench.

It might be foolish. His earlier smile told me it's foolish. But as the evening wears on, with him laughing and socialising and me offering my platters and trying not to get noticed… well, Seraphina's words suddenly start to make sense in a way they haven't in a very long time.

If only he would…

"Miss?"

Quickly, I turn my head. Grumpy Bumblebee, who I know to be Ken's head of security, is standing next to me, though looking straight ahead. I mean to ask what he wants (maybe more chicken Kiev?), but then see him nod discreetly toward a door at the other side of the room that I know to hide a corridor leading to some offices. When I look, I just see Hanson disappear through it.

"He'll follow you there in ten minutes," Grumpy Bumblebee – or Beckett, as he's really called – mutters, achieving this feat without once looking my way or even visibly moving his lips.

"Okay," I whisper back.

It's apparently all the confirmation he needs, for without so much as acknowledging it, he moves off to re-take his place some steps behind Ken. Ever present, but invisible. Just like I am.

As inconspicuously as possible, I move through the room, towards the indicated door. I make a point to offer my platter to everyone I pass, making it look like it's chance directing me towards that part of the room, not design. Only when I reach the door, do I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, making sure that both Seraphina and Bridget have their backs turned. Anyone else looking would simply think I have a proper job-related reason to be in this part of the restaurant.

I slip through the door, making sure to close it firmly behind me. But it's only after taking several steps that I allow myself to relax, leaning my back against the wall and closing my eyes. This is _surreal_.

"Evening, Miss," comes a sudden voice, startling me, but when I look, it's just Hanson, strolling along the corridor from where he probably checked the offices. "All clear," he adds when he sees me looking past him at the doors.

"Good evening," I reply. My eyes fall on the still half-filled platter in my hands and, at a loss as to what else to do, I offer it to him. "Devilled egg?"

For the fraction of a second, he looks surprised, but then his mouth curves upwards in something that might, with goodwill, be called a smile. "Never been one for eggs," he admits. "I'd take one of those shrimp crackers though."

"Sure," I nod, swivelling the platter to present him the side with the prawn cocktails instead.

Taking one, he pops it into his mouth in one go. "My grandmother used to swear by them when it came to party food," he remarks conversationally. "Pigs in a blanket, too. Or angels on horseback, if she was feeling fancy."

I can't help a smile at the absurdity of it. "Sometimes I wonder what non-native speakers make of these weird food names. I mean, no-one could convincingly argue that toad in the hole makes any kind of sense – or that it sounds in any way enticing." And, like, don't even get me _started_ on spotted dick…

Hanson considers this for a moment, before offering, "Bubble and squeak?" The not-quite-smile on his face has widened into a real one and I can't help note that it makes him look almost… human.

"None of you have ever truly baffled a foreigner until you have offered them stargazy pie," comments another voice and I turn to see Ken walking over to us, the door just closing behind him again as if by invisible hand (though it's probably really just Beckett from the other side).

Hanson immediately starts moving. Directing a "Sir" at Ken and a parting nod at me, he's through the door before I have time to blink. Ken comes to stand by my side much slower, casting a curious look at the platter I'm holding. With no other option, I set it down by my feet.

"What's stargazy pie?" I ask after having straightened again and wrinkle my nose in thought. It doesn't _sound_ bad, but then, knowing the English…

Ken laughs, taking both my hands in his and swinging them leisurely from side to side. "One day, I'm going to take you to Cornwall and make them give you stargazy pie," he promises. "And you will hate me for it."

Cocking my head to the side, I raise both eyebrows at him, demanding an explanation. He laughs again, obviously amused by the very thought. "It involves fish heads sticking out of the pie. With eyes and everything."

"Now, that's just repulsing," I declare, my nose now wrinkling in disgust. Ken bends forward to drop a kiss to the tip of it.

"So, no stargazy pie for you, I take it," he remarks with a grin. Then, swinging out hands once more for good measure, he adds, "I'm getting a bit of a déjà vu feeling."

"No spilled wine involved this time," I point out, thinking back to our very first meeting. And how far we've come since then.

Ken looks down at my black waitressing uniform. "At least it wouldn't make such a mess this time. Though I think I liked the other dress better."

"Consider me absolutely devastated that my working clothes don't live up to whatever French maid fantasy you were entertaining just there," I tease playfully, tilting my chin forward as I speak.

He smiles at the comment, but shakes his head. "No. To have you start serving me anything would be strange. Even in jest."

Yes. It would be.

"Nothing for it but to have you dress up as a _garçon_ instead," I remark with an elaborate shrug, drawing a laugh from him.

"As the lady wishes," he replies with a mock bow. Leaning forward, he tries to steal a kiss, but I quickly duck my head away.

There's puzzlement in his eyes, so I hurry to explain, "If I go out there with my hair mussed up and my lips all pink, _someone_ is going to smell a rat. And that, after you almost gave us away earlier, smiling at me like that. I only just managed to convince Seraphina she was imagining things."

"Seraphina is one of your friends, isn't she? And she's here tonight?" he enquires curiously and I'd chide him for evading the subject at hand, but I'm also quite pleased that he remembers my friends' names.

"Yes, she's here. You actually got introduced to her. The girl in the galaxy-print dress? Like, 'outer space but make it fashion'?" I prompt (though not really expecting him to get the reference).

Frowning in thought, Ken seems to mentally go back over the people he met tonight. "Yes, I think I remember her," he finally replies. "I didn't catch her name, but the dress stood out. Had I known she was your friend, I would have talked longer to her."

"Best that you didn't, then," I retort drily. "She was already wondering why you smiled our way in the first place. She's clever. If you had suddenly given her too much attention, she might have put two and two together."

Ken nods, looking suitably admonished. "Right you are. Better safe than sorry. And I _am_ sorry for almost giving us away earlier. I was just very glad to see you and didn't think quickly enough."

He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and I feel myself melt. I don't know how he does it, but I always find I've forgiven him long before making a conscious decision to do so.

"You could have warned me," I point out anyway. "About you being here."

"I didn't know _you'd_ be here until I was already in the car," he clarifies. "I didn't particularly want to come and I think Beckett thought it might improve my mood to know I'd get to see you."

See what I mean about him always saying just what it takes to make me forgive him?

"Did it?" I ask, raising both eyebrows at him.

He smiles. "You bet it did." Then, before I can react, he brushes his lips against mine in the most fleeting of kisses – making me feel almost sorry for the boundaries I put up earlier, sensible though they might be.

I'm just trying to decide if we can't get away with one proper kiss at least (and judging from his smug expression, Ken has a pretty good idea what I'm thinking), when there's a discreet knock on the door.

"That's Beckett," sighs Ken, his pleased expression having given way to one of resignation. "I told them I had to make a phone call, but I reckon I've already been gone too long."

"Me, too," I agree, much as part of me would just like to stay here with him. "If I don't get back to work soon, I wouldn't put it past Bridget to stab me with a fork, just to teach me a lesson."

"Can't risk that," decrees Ken. He bends forward to kiss my forehead, before taking a step back. Then, hesitating, he adds, "I didn't think I'd ever ask this of you, but… could you stay as far away as possible from me tonight?"

Because me serving him is strange. Of course.

"I didn't think I'd ever agree to that request, but for tonight, I _so_ will," I retort with a lopsided smile.

A laugh, a squeeze of my hand, and then he's gone, the door falling shut behind him. Knowing I have to wait at least another couple of minutes to follow him outside, I lean back against the wall, my eyes still fixed on the door he disappeared through. But I'm much calmer now than I was earlier tonight. Neither Yseult's poison nor Seraphina's inadvertent comments can pain me anymore.

Because I might be the girl on the side lines, perfectly invisible to the world, but I'm certainly not invisible to _him_. For now, that's quite enough.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Piano Man' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1973)._

* * *

 _To wow:_  
 _No, the protection officers have no idea about that app on Rilla's phone. The only way for them to find out would be for either her or Ken to tell them (which they won't do) or to temporarily steal her phone (which they would like to, but are expressively forbidden from doing). But since they don't know about it, it can't rob them off their sleep at night ;)._  
 _And I'm pleased that you are pleased! It's baby steps, but Rilla is moving in the right direction by actually saying "yes, this is what I want." Let's collectively hope that Ken's easy acquiescence makes her more courageous about doing it again in the future. (Though I can't promise you there won't also be steps back at some point. I_ can _, however, promise that she'll get there in the end.)_  
 _Mrs Weisz is my eternal surprise character. I never had any plans for her to appear in this story at all, conceived her only while I was writing her for the first time, and ever since, she's insisted on sneaking into the story once in a while. She's fun to write though, so no complaints from me. Joy is another characters that I love writing, even though she can be_ a lot _at times, in every sense of the word. (I'm a control freak younger sister, by the way. We come in all shapes and sizes.)_  
 _Thanks for explaining about your thoughts on Rilla and Carl :). You aren't entirely wrong about them, though I'd say they were equally passive about it. We'll learn more about that relationship at a later point, but the way I see them, they were childhood friends, who transitioned into teenage sweethearts after always being told they'd make a cute couple. It was fine at first and they did and do care about one another, but they were never head over heels in love, nor actually well-suited as a couple. They may have both had an inkling about that before, but truly realised it only when school came to an end and they were looking at very different futures. That's when they talked it out and both decided to go back to being friends, which suits them much better._


	22. Yesterday came suddenly

_New York City, USA  
June 2011_

 **Yesterday came suddenly**

A car door is opened just as I pass and I grind to a halt.

I don't know the green station wagon, but I do know the face of the man sitting behind the wheel, now craning his neck backwards to look at me.

"Hello Miss," he greets.

"Hello Hanson," I reply with a smile as I slide onto the backseat and close the door behind me.

It still feels ridiculous to have Hanson pick me up when I could easily take the Subway, but apparently, the underground garage is the most inconspicuous way to enter Ken's apartment building. He doesn't have reporters hanging around his front door daily, but you can never know when one turns up and decides to snap whoever enters the building. Thus, it has been decreed that I am to be picked up by an ever-changing rotation of cars whenever I stay at Ken's place, even at times when it would actually be faster to walk.

"Did you do some shopping?" asks Hanson as he merges the car with the slowly-moving traffic again (traffic in New York always moves slowly, if it moves at all).

I glance at the shopping bag sitting next to me on the backseat, then back up at Hanson, who's looking at me through the rear mirror. "Just groceries. Candies, specifically," I clarify with a shrug. "I'm babysitting my sister's children for the weekend. It'll be nice to have them just to myself for three whole days, but it's always better to come prepared."

Not that I'd ever tell Joy, of course, but when Izzie throws a tantrum, a bit of chocolate sometimes goes a long way. And as you never know in advance which particular sweet the young lady prefers at any given time, I have long learned to bring an entire arsenal for her to choose from. (Jake, while generally being much more easy-going, is also not known to decline a candy or five. And since I'm still making up for neglecting him during all those months, he's likely to get them, too.)

"Is your sister out of town?" Hanson enquires politely, smoothly switching lanes as he speaks.

"She's attending a conference of sorts in San Francisco and since I'm available for child minding duties, her husband decided to accompany her," I explain.

With classes over for almost a month now and exams long past as well, I have plenty of time for it, too. Normally, I would have left New York weeks ago for Halifax, but, well… if it's between spending time with your parents or your handsome boyfriend, who could honestly say they'd chose the parents? Even parents as nice as mine. That it also allows me to make up to Jake and Izzie how little I saw them this year is an added bonus.

(Plus, me staying longer this year didn't make a difference financially, because poor Beckett actually started to twitch when he learned that I usually sub-let my apartment during the summer months. Apparently, that's absolutely out of the question. Mum was thankfully quite understanding about it, which is good, since it's her and Dad paying the actual rent.)

"San Francisco is a lovely spot," remarks Hanson. "My wife and I went there for holidays two summers ago."

"I'll take your word for it," I answer easily and see him smiling in the mirror.

He's nice, Hanson is. Most of Ken's PPOs don't take much notice of me at all and Beckett seems to consider me a riddle that needs to be solved (or else, a problem that needs to be dealt with), but Hanson is actually nice to me. He's one of the younger ones, too, which might play into it. I've had other PPOs pick me up when he's not on duty, but when he is, it's usually him ferrying me around. (And yes, I totally mentioned to Ken that he's the friendliest of them, if only to ensure that it stays that way.)

We make some relaxed chit-chat until Hanson finally pulls the car into the garage. As usual, he gets out with me to punch in the mysterious code that opens the elevator doors. I did once suggest he could just tell it to me, but he just shrugged awkwardly and mumbled something and ducked away. (I'm suspecting Beckett's influence.) At least I'm allowed to ride the elevator on my own now, Hanson taking his leave with the customary gesture of touching two fingers to his temple.

As the elevator zooms upwards, I check my appearance in the mirror, idly considering that if Ken had his way, we'd spend much less time at his place than we do. He still argues that my place is cosy and his isn't, while my stance is that my place is run-down and his is anything but. Still, even he can't deny that it's more convenient for me to sleep over at his when I have things to do in Manhattan early the next day – even if it's just shepherding Joy's kids.

Stepping out of the elevator, I quickly cross the hall and knock on Ken's door. He takes a moment to open and when he does, his face is strangely tense. For a moment, that throws me, but then I see the phone he's holding up to his ear. He makes the effort of a smile for my benefit, reaching out to squeeze my arm as he does, but it's clear that his attention is with whoever is on the other end of the line.

He gestures for me to come inside and pulls an apologetic little grimace. When I smile to indicate that it's quite alright, he quickly withdraws into what I know to be an office, never once saying a word to whoever he's on the phone with, save for the odd non-committal 'hmm'-sound.

I remain standing in the living room for a moment, until my gaze falls on the half-open bathroom door. I try to sample the very roomy bath tub whenever I'm here (a tub being what I miss the most in my Shoebox), and right now, a long bath sounds like heaven. And with Ken busy anyway, who am I to pass on that opportunity?

Choosing a water temperature that's so hot it's only just bearable, I quickly divest myself of my clothing and slide into the tub, my skin prickling from the heat. Still, it's glorious. Closing my eyes, I relax, revelling in the feeling of the warm water, and try my best to push away the niggling thought at the back of my mind, the one that has me wondering whatever is the matter with Ken and his phone call.

Minutes pass and I just feel myself getting drowsy, when there's a sound from the door. Opening my eyes again, I see Ken sitting down on the side of the tub.

"Sorry for that" he apologises, lightly tapping a finger against my raised knee.

I quickly shake my head. "It's fine. I put the time to good use, as you can see. I needed a good, relaxing bath."

"Why's that? Anything the matter?" he asks, looking concerned.

"Nu-huh. Not really, anyway," I answer with a shrug. "Just gearing up for a visit from Aunt Flo, which always puts me out of sorts a bit. That, and I finally looked at my exam results earlier today."

He rubs his hand over my knee comfortingly. "Sorry to hear that. How did the exams go?"

I grimace slightly. "They're over. That's one point in their favour."

Because, let's face it, I knew fully well why I put off looking at them for a good two weeks. I was right to do it, too. Had I been clever, I wouldn't have looked at them at all.

Ken raises both eyebrows to indicate for me to speak further, but I quickly shake my head. "The less said about it, the better."

"If you prefer," he replies after a moment, sounding slightly dubious but, thankfully, backing off. The last thing I need right now is a discussion of my scholarly success (or, lack thereof, if we want to get precise). For one, I'd prefer just to forget about it, thank you very much. For another, my parents will have it covered between them anyway, once I show my face in Halifax.

Ken lapses into silence, which gives me an opportunity to study him for a moment. Despite his concern over my wellbeing, the impression I had of him when he opened the door wasn't wrong. There's a deep frown etched between his brows and his mouth is set into a thin line. Whoever he talked to, something about that phone call clearly upset him.

Raising a wet foot, I gently nudge him in the side, reclaiming his attention from whichever complicated thoughts have him distracted.

"Join me?" I ask with a lopsided smile when he looks at me. "It's very relaxing and you look all tense."

For a moment, I think he's going to decline, but then he gets up abruptly, undresses with mechanical movements, and climbs into the tub in front of me. He stays sitting upright, his back straight and his shoulders tense, the knotted muscles easily visible under his skin.

Whatever's the matter, it obviously has him pretty worked up. There's nothing left of the easy joviality I so often see in him. Instead, he's a bundle of nerves and strain.

With nothing else to do but wait for him to open up, I reach out to slide my hands up his arms, digging my fingers into the knots of muscles in his shoulders when I reach them. At first, he doesn't react, but after I've worked for some minutes, I feel him slowly start to relax, his shoulders sinking down as his muscles loosen up.

Silently, I keep massaging for a while longer, only drawing my hands back when my fingers start to hurt. "Feeling better?"

He sighs heavily, finally letting himself sink backwards, his head coming to rest against my chest. "Much," he answers quietly. "Thank you."

The tenseness is gone from his body, but it's clear that whatever is bothering him wasn't magically chased away by a massage. Part of me wants to ask, but I can see that the last thing he needs right now is for me to start probing. For now, I guess the best thing I can do is just be there.

Shifting slightly to move my hand up, I let my fingers lightly massage his scalp. He moves his head slightly so he's facing sideways and I can feel his breath on my skin as he sighs silently, his body relaxing against mine.

We stay that way for what must be half an hour or longer and I'd think he had fallen asleep if not for the fact that his eyes stay open throughout. It's only when the water starts to feel cool and his head heavy that I gently nudge his shoulder. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's getting cold."

A moment passes before he rouses himself, climbing out of the tub with heavy movements, but making sure to offer me a hand for assistance as I follow. He holds up a scrumptiously fluffy bathrobe for me and I let myself be engulfed by it, silencing the tiny voice in my head that wants to remind me of the need to moisturize after a bath as long as this. (It's not like I can't already feel my skin drying out, but it's a small sacrifice to make.)

I do take a moment to pull a brush through my hair, because I know that otherwise, I won't stand a chance against the tangles tomorrow. Then, following an impulse, I put my golden necklace back on and slip it beneath the collar of my bathrobe, before walking over to the bedroom, where I find Ken sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space. For a moment, I consider joining him, putting on a movie to while away the hours and then trying to coax him to sleep, in hope that tomorrow will be a better day, but then decide that whatever _is_ bothering him, it won't likely go away overnight.

So, turning, I quickly go back to the living-room to pick up my shopping bag, emptying its contents on the bed next to Ken after my return.

Slowly, he turns his head, blinking confusedly at the array of sweets spread out next to him. "What the…?"

"Comfort food," I declare confidently. "I bought it earlier today to bribe Izzie, but you look like you have more need for it." Shifting through the pile of plastic bags and paper boxes, I hold some of them up for his perusal. "We've got Reese's and Milk Duds here, for the chocolate kick. Starbursts, of course, and Lifesavers – the gummy kind, because I like them better. These here are candy corns – I'm not wild on the taste, but Izzie likes them and anyway, it's soothing to stack them – and Red Vines, which are, of course, much superior to Twizzlers. Oh, and Twinkies for when you're actually hungry."

One second passes, then two, as Ken stares down at all the candy on his bed and I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, waiting for him to react. When he does, he does it by giving a snort of laughter.

I pout. "I don't _have_ to share my candy stash with you, you know," I point out, feeling slightly put out.

But when I move to re-collect the packages, he reaches out to still my hands. "No, please don't. Sorry for laughing. I appreciate you sharing," he assures, his eyes still crinkling in amusement. (And it's the fact that he's laughing again that, more than anything, makes me glad to share.)

Ken tugs at my hand and I allow him to pull me down beside him on the bed, folding my legs beneath me as I sit. He, after throwing me a quick smile, reaches out to pry open a box of Milk Duds, popping several of them in his mouth at one go.

Chewing, he moves his gaze back towards me. The laughter is gone from his face, replaced by what looks like pensiveness. "You're one of the most caring people I know," he informs me after a moment, appearing quite genuine.

"I'm no more caring than most people," I argue, frowning slightly.

But Ken shakes his head. "I say you are. Not only how you care for me, but the way you look out for your neighbour, how you try to support your colleague and, of course, how much you care for your sister's children."

I wrinkle my nose in thought. "That's hardly remarkable. Tracy needs _someone_ in her corner and I get to do little enough for her as it is. And the rest of them give back as much as they get. Mrs Weisz keeps me in good coffee and good food, and Joy and Dan support me financially. I could never pay my bills just on what I make waitressing. I mean, my parents pay the rent, and tuition is paid by –"

But I get no further, Ken's finger on my lips silencing me effectively. Once he's sure that I have shut up, he leans forward to give me a soft, chocolate-y kiss.

"But you'd do it even without getting something back," he argues gently. "Because you do care."

I open my mouth, then shut it again. He's right. I totally would.

Judging from his expression, Ken knows he's correct. But as a moment passes, the little smile playing on his lips gets replaced by a frown once again.

Reaching out, he brushes my hair behind my ears with both hands, before dropping them back into his lap. Swallowing visibly, he finally remarks, "I don't want to lose you."

I frown.

Why would he…?

"But you aren't losing me," I assure quickly. "I'm not going anywhere"

Ken sighs heavily, moving his head to the side, so that he's not looking at me anymore. "But _I_ am." A beat, as I feel myself freeze. "It's crunch time, Rilla. That was my father on the phone earlier. He ordered me home. Permanently."

I couldn't move or speak, even if I wanted to. Because if he goes back… where does that leave me? Us?

(In some distant corner of my mind, I realise that I have no right to be surprised. I always knew this was coming eventually. I mean, there's never been any doubt that one day, he'd go back. It's just that I thought we had more time.)

"I tried to make him agree to let me stay longer, through the summer at least. If not at the UN, then maybe at the British embassy in Washington. It was no use though," Ken adds, staring at his hands. "I'm supposed to start interning with the government at home come September and he wants me to catch up on royal duties in the summer. He gave me until the end of the month, but made it clear that he expects me home by July."

Beneath the panic locking my body into a vice, I feel an irrational annoyance at the far-away King. He's never been much more to me than a face on coins and stamps before, but now, his decisions are having a sudden and direct effect on my life and I'm not liking it at all.

Also, I guess, anger is just an easier emotion to feel than all the other feelings tugging my confused mind into different directions.

"The thing is, I couldn't even argue with him, much as I wanted to," adds Ken with a sigh, "Summers traditionally aren't busy times, but I haven't been pulling my weight this year. Plus, my mother is having a bad spell and they can't rely on her at the moment."

Swallowing, I find that I can speak again, though my voice sounds all wrong. "If your mother is unwell, it might help her to have you home."

He laughs, but in a way that is the exact opposite of humorous. It makes me shiver. "If having me near helped my mother's illness, we might not be in this mess in the first place. At least not this deep."

 _My mother's illness_. I have an idea, of course, what he's talking about. I'm not that much of a fool. But he's never offered up anything more specific and I didn't pry.

Now though, he turns his head to look at me, the fingers of one hand absent-mindedly drumming against the package of Starbursts. "It's her mind. Not that she's crazy, but… she's mentally ill. Fragile, some might say. She has good times and when she's well, it's like the sun is up. She… she can be the brightest, most joyous person in the room. But when she's having a bad spell, it's all… bleak."

Bleak. That's exactly what he looks like as well. Bleak. If he was tense before, now he's just resigned. And so, I do the only thing that makes sense. Ignoring the voice in my head that wants to ask, 'What about me? What happens to us when you leave?', I lean forward, wrap my arms around him and hold on tight.

As is so common with people not used to being hugged, he needs a moment to settle into the embrace, but when he does, I can feel his arms rising to return it, clasping me closely. We stay like that for minutes, long past the point where my legs go numb, but I wait until he, of his own accord, draws back.

He doesn't let go completely, merely leaning backward enough so he can look at me, moving one hand to cradle my face. His eyes search mine and when he speaks, his voice is slightly hoarse. "I love you. God, _how_ I love you."

He's said it before, of course, but never quite like this. Never has it been this direct. This raw.

Not trusting my treacherous voice to speak, I reach upwards to cover his hand with mine, moving my head to press a kiss to the inside of it. The ghost of a smile appears on his lips as his thumb brushes along my cheekbone.

"I love how caring you are. How much you love life. People, too. How you don't let anything deter you once you've made up your mind. How optimistic you are. _Plucky_ , as our old nanny would say. And how just seeing you puts me in a better mood."

I open my mouth, though whether to return the sentiment or to set him straight (about how cranky and snippy I can get and how I'm not always optimistic and certainly not always brave), I don't even know myself. But I don't get even a word out.

"Don't. Please," Ken asks. "I'm not good with this feelings stuff anyway. If I stop now, I might not get to say all I have to say."

I take a deep breath. "Okay."

Part of me is terrified of letting him speak. Of course it is. Because listing all the things he loves about me doesn't _sound_ like we're gearing up for a break up, but then, they could also be just kind parting words. Because he's going back into a world that has no place for me and who's to tell what that actually means?

"What I'm trying to say is…" For a moment, he seems to grapple for words. He, who is normally never at a loss for an answer. "Everything is always… _brighter_ , when you're around."

Slowly, I nod. My heart is a lump in my throat and I have to clasp my hands from shaking, but I promised to let him speak.

"I didn't come here intending to fall in love. In fact, just the opposite. But I did and here we are," Ken continues, shaking his head slightly. "I have to go back to London. I can't change that, much as I may want to. I know that I don't want to lose you either, but that's also not my decision to make. It's your call. It's up to you whether you want to try and give this a shot. I guess it's also up to you to name your conditions."

Is he suggesting…?

His gaze drifts to the side, becoming unfocused. "I realise that I'm asking a lot of you. Long-distance relationships are complicated at the best of times and even more so with a life as unusual as mine can be. But I don't want to lose you. I really don't."

"It won't be… easy," I demur, swallowing heavily. "Me here, you back in England…" We'd have an entire ocean between us and that's even without factoring in the craziness that is his royal life.

"I'm not saying it will be easy nor that we will definitely make it work," Ken replies immediately. "I just think that if we didn't try, I'd regret it. It won't be easy, but we could figure something out. We have phones and I can come visit. It's not the same, but it's not nothing either. And it's just a year. I mean, once you have graduated, that re-shuffles the cards anyway."

Unbidden, my mind flashes back to Jake, begging me not to move to England, but I push the thought away firmly. No-one is talking about me moving anywhere. Right now, we're discussing the exact opposite.

Not knowing what to say, I sit quietly, unmoving, as Ken moves his gaze back towards me. It is direct now, perfectly unguarded.

"I love you," he affirms, his voice not wavering. "I love being with you. I'd like to see where it could lead."

"I love you, too." Because of this, at least, I'm sure, even if everything else is a mess.

The smallest of smile tugs at the corners of Ken's mouth as he weaves our hands together and draws them up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of mine.

"What do you say, Rilla?" he asks carefully. "Are you willing to give it a try?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Yesterday' (written by Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1965)._

* * *

 _To wow:_  
 _Even for someone as clever and attentive as Seraphina, I think it's quite a reach to seriously consider that her friend might be dating a proper prince. But she sure will kick herself for not figuring it out!  
Oh, I had much fun with Yseult ;). But yeah, she's a first rate snob. In her world, the Blythes don't measure up because they have professions at all. Yseult's parents just have money. In that sense, she's certainly giving Rilla a first taste of what's to come, because if Yseult already considers her "too middle class", there will be more than one person in Good Ole England sharing that belief. And those tabloids are just... ugh. (Tristan isn't as awful as his sister. He just has no backbone. When it became clear that he family wouldn't accept Rilla, he just acquiesced.)  
Those are some terribly expensive studies, aren't they? Especially considering how lax Rilla is about them. But she will come to regret that attitude and I've worked out a financial scenario that means she isn't bankrupting her parents with her tuition, at the very least. Small mercies, I guess ;)._

 _To Guest:  
You're totally right! Like Anne, Rilla had to step out with a spineless man coming from a snobbish family to realise how awful these people can be. (Not all, mind, but some.) Alas, unlike Anne, Rilla's prince turned out to be a literal one, not just a figurative prince, so there's no easy escape for her. There will come a time when Yseult's brand of snobbishness will seem harmless to her.  
As for the name, I think their mother just wanted the most unusual way to spell her daughter's name. She also might have thought that Yseult was the original spelling, as per the old tale. Which she'd be wrong about, but I don't see her as the kind of woman doing much research.  
I'm German, so I can at least pride myself in knowing how to spell Brunnhilde ;). Or Brünnhilde, as the Wagnerian name goes in German. (We do like our umlauts.) It is not a name commonly given to children these days though, which makes me wonder - if you're speaking from experience, is it your own name or of someone you know? (Only if you want to tell, of course!)_


	23. I'm young, I know, but even so

_Halifax, Canada  
July 2011_

 **I'm young, I know, but even so**

"Rilla? Is that you?" Dad calls out.

Stopping to pop my head into his office, I see him sitting at his desk, legs propped up on the desk top, and looking very much like a person engaged in doing nothing at all.

"Come here and keep your old father company for a bit?" he asks, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

"Sure," I smile back. Slipping into the room and closing the door behind me, I walk past Dad to drop a kiss on his cheek, before folding myself on the squishy old armchair that's been the only constant in the succession of Dad's offices ever since I can remember. Nan keeps trying to get him to replace it, but Dad always cheerfully refuses, and truthfully, I'm glad for it. What it lacks in looks, it makes up for in cosiness.

"Did you have a good time?" Dad wants to know, referencing the fact that I've just come back from lunch with some old friends from school (at which the topic of Betty and Liam's engagement proved so popular that, thankfully, no-one wanted to know much about what is going on in my life).

I nod empathically. "Yes, it was lovely to see everyone again. We really don't meet up often enough, so it's always especially nice when we manage to get together."

"I can imagine," agrees Dad, while lightly nodding along to the music playing in the background.

With a pointed look at his legs still on the desk, I enquire, "And what have _you_ been doing today?"

"Not writing the article for that medical journal. The one I should have been writing," he answers with a conspiratorial smile. "But no telling your mother."

"My lips are sealed," I promise with a laugh.

"That's my girl!" declares Dad proudly and winks at me.

With a whirring sound, the current record – Genesis' endless 'Firth of Fifth' – comes to an end and, swinging his legs down from the desk, Dad gets up to put on a new one.

Vinyl records, it must be said, is the one and only thing Dad is snobbish about. He swears their sound is much more authentic than that of any other medium. CDs, he's declared to be perfectly useless and suspiciously new-fangled besides, and back when Shirley and I once tried to demonstrate to him the benefits of portable media, he nodded and smiled a lot and then went to put on a Springsteen record.

I watch quietly as Dad selects a record from his collection. It's big enough to take up almost half of a wall and meticulously organised at that. Many years ago, when Joy was mad at him for something no-one can remember, she went into his office at night and re-ordered them. I was just a child then, but I still remember how mad Dad was about it. After that, we all knew better than to ever touch his records.

Having apparently decided on one, Dad puts on the new record and seconds later, the familiar tune of Bob Seger's 'Against the Wind' floats through the room.

Snuggling deeper into the squishy armchair, I allow my twitching foot to move to the beat of the song. Dad remains standing next to the record player, eyes closed, taking in the music, and for several long moments, we both just listen to the song.

It's only when the instrumental bridge in the middle of the song is over that Dad opens his eyes again. "Ah, that piano is just beautiful," he remarks appreciatively.

I nod my affirmation, but feel otherwise too lazy to move or speak, just about suppressing a yawn. Allowing Seger to play out the rest of his song, Dad picks out Toto's 'Hold the Line' next (which is certainly catchy enough to wake me up again), before he returns to his chair, sitting down and stretching out his legs in front of him.

He's looking at me, mildly interested, until I feel myself growing twitchy. As Steve Lukather launches into his guitar solo, I ask, "Was there any specific reason you wanted to talk to me?"

"I just thought we could spend some time together," Dad answers with a smile. "Despite your exciting Big Apple life, your boring old parents are always happy when you come back to see them."

"Dad!" I chide. "Don't be melodramatic! You see me plenty. More than any of the others, except for Jem and Shirley."

Because while I have so far made a habit out of spending my summers with my parents, my sisters and Walter rarely return except for the big Ingleside reunions. I think Di hasn't been back to Halifax in about two years.

Unlike Ingleside, which has been our island home ever since I can remember, my parents moved several times within Halifax. Before my birth, those were usually moves to ever bigger properties, but lately, they've been downsizing. After I left for university and Jem moved out of their basement, they sold the last house and rented out a flat. It takes up the upper floor of one of these big old houses that once belonged to just one family, but have since been partitioned off. Of us children, only Shirley still has a permanent bedroom here, the rest of us sleeping in the small guest room or on the pull-out couch in the living room whenever we're visiting. (As the only other child returned so far, I laid claim to the guest room immediately. If anyone else should arrive before we decamp to the island, they're perfectly welcome to the couch!)

"We can never see too much of our beloved children," Dad declares grandly, but there's a distinct twinkle of amusement on his eyes.

"Oh, please. Save your sweet talks for Mum, will you?" I retort drily, rolling my eyes at him and feeling quite pleased at how successful I am at keeping a straight face.

"Excellent idea," Dad agrees amiably, and ugh, that's about all I ever want to know about that. I love how in love my parents are, but I certainly don't need to hear any specifics.

Apparently, my thoughts must have shown clearly on my face, because Dad laughs quietly. But instead of probing (or plying me with details), he merely gets up replace Toto with another record. He carefully places the spindle and the first bars of 'The Way It Is' by Bruce Hornsby & The Range can be heard.

It sure looks like someone is feeling piano-y today.

Having settled back into his chair, Dad once again goes back to looking at me. "Alright, if you prefer more serious subjects of discussion…" he begins slowly. "How are you doing? How did exams go?"

I groan.

"Can we not?" I plead, even though I know I don't have any chance of success. My parents never ask for proof of my college grades, but they always make a point to ask how my studies are going. In fact, I'm surprised that Dad's only asking now.

"Exams are important, Rilla," Dad points out. He doesn't say it accusingly, but I can feel the back of my neck starting to prickle at the prospect of _that_ discussion. He's looking all disappointed, too, and that doesn't help matters.

"I know they are," I counter. "And I passed all of mine, so it's all peachy. We can now go on to discuss happier things."

The truth is, it isn't looking so very peachy. My exams really aren't something to be proud of. Luckily, there were the somewhat more successful midterm exams plus class participation plus a group project (coordinated to perfection by Chelsea) plus a couple of papers to dredge my overall grades up into more acceptable territory, but it's still… yeah.

Dad makes a thoughtful sound. "You know that your mother and I are of the opinion that you're all adults and responsible for your own lives, but this is your future we are talking about. If you don't do your best in university, you might come to regret it."

"Well, I'm _sorry_ we can't all be Di," I retort, somewhat sullenly, and curl myself deeper into the armchair.

"No-one is expecting you to be Di, Rilla," Dad replies earnestly.

"Could have fooled me," I mutter, not looking at him.

The thing is, I _am_ not like Di. Nor like Joy, for that matter. Their particular brand of brilliance passed me by. Shirley has it, but his overall grades in school have always been hampered by the fact that he couldn't (or wouldn't) write a proper essay even if his life depended on it. And while Nan and Jem are just run-of-the-mill clever, they both have a goal firmly in sight and know to work towards it. Jem's helped by the fact that he has no real academic weaknesses, while Nan can spin everything to sound cleverer than it is.

And then there are Walter and I. Having neither brilliance nor a high-flying goal, we are best motivated by something that truly interests us and find little joy in running the hamster wheel just for the sake of it. Which shouldn't be the travesty it is considered in this family, if you ask me.

I'm not a very bad student. It's not that. I mean, after I actually knuckled down to learn, I did quite well in my International Baccalaureate courses (my parents' idea and one of the reasons why they sent all of us to Halifax Grammar School) and NYU doesn't accept just anyone, after all. I don't even think I'm particularly stupid. My grades usually come in somewhat above average, but not above average enough to be in any way impressive. And I have to put in the work to achieve it. Di can walk into an exam and wing it and come out successful, but not me. I do the work or pay the price.

This time, I paid the price.

Dad has gotten up again and moments later, Derek and the Dominos (or, really, Eric Clapton and Friends) start on 'Layla'. Instead of going back to his chair though, Dad comes to kneel down in front of me. I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them, looking at him warily over the top of my knees.

"No-one is expecting you to be Di," Dad affirms. "We are very proud of Di, but we're proud of you as well, just the way you are. We just sometimes worry about you, your mother and I."

"You mean now that Shirley has finally resolved to leave his room, you need another child to worry over?" I grumble.

(Shirley is heading for Georgia Tech in the fall. Quite what drew him to Atlanta, no-one knows, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's actually why he picked it. Shirley hates to be predictable and him studying computer sciences was already predictable enough.)

Shaking his head slightly, Dad reaches out to place his hand over mine. "This has nothing to do with Shirley and you know it," he points out reasonably. (Dad does most things reasonably.) "We just wonder what you picture your future to look like."

Yeah. Well. I wonder that as well.

"I'm just… taking it as it comes, I guess," I answer slowly, raising my shoulders in what is half a shrug, but not lowering them again.

"Next year, you'll be done with college," Dad reminds. "Do you know what you'd like to do afterwards?"

I let my shoulders fall. "Get a job. As everyone does."

"Hmh," makes Dad. "And what kind of job do you see yourself doing?"

Jeez, how am _I_ supposed to know?

"Some kind of office job, I suppose. Whatever you do with an economics degree," I reply. I must say, I'm hazy on the details of this, but then, I also don't care all that much. Most office jobs are created alike, aren't they?

Dad looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, before giving my hand a gentle squeeze. "If you would like to start over… study something else…"

Huh? Where did that come from?

I shake my head. "No. Why would I?" Economics are, after all, perfectly serviceable, if somewhat bland.

"You just don't seem as passionate about your studies as –" Abruptly, Dad breaks off.

 _As your siblings_ , he was going to say. The words hang between us, as glaring as a blinking neon sign.

He's not wrong, either. My siblings all chose subjects they're passionate about. Even Walter loves his Russian poets, which is more than I can say about microeconomics _or_ Irish literature.

Over on the record player, the song segues into its second, piano-heavy part.

"I'm not," I tell Dad openly. "I'm not passionate about it. It's alright and it could be worse. That's not too bad, as far as I am concerned. And I know that probably marks me out as the weird one, but I don't _have_ anything I'm that passionate about. I just don't."

Dad looks like he wants to say something, but I cut right across him. "Look, I realise I messed up with my exams. I didn't study enough, which was my own fault and I know it. I'm annoyed at myself, because I knew better and ignored it, but there you have it. It's not the end of the world though, because for the kind of job I'm likely to get, I won't be needing top grades anyway. I promise you I will make sure to study harder next time, but it's not like anything really _changed_."

I can see Dad's brow furrow into a frown as he processes this. He's trying, I know, but I don't really expect him to get it. Dad has brilliance, he has goals and he has something he is _that_ passionate about. In short, he's the exact opposite of me.

"And that is truly enough for you?" Dad asks carefully after having organised his thoughts.

I shrug. "Sure."

Because it just has to be, right? I've known for years that I'm not the one destined for greatness in this family. More likely, I'm going to spend my days answering phones and filing papers while my siblings write their names into history books. And yes, at first, it hurt to acknowledge that, but the years have lessened the sting somewhat.

Dad shakes his head, as if trying to clear his mind. "But there must be something –"

I interrupt him with a shake of my own head. "There isn't. I don't have that perfect profession like the rest of you do. I'll get a job, it'll pay the bills, I'll go home at the end of the day, and it'll be alright. I enjoy my life just fine. I don't need work to fulfil me in any way."

And I'm sure as hell not going to attempt to enter into a race I have no chance of winning. If I must be the foolish one in the family, let it be that way, but I refuse to embarrass myself over it.

It's clear from the look in Dad's eyes that he's not convinced, but I didn't expect him to be. For the brilliant, it's hard to imagine what life looks like for us mere mortals. But to his credit, he nods anyway, before slowly unfolding himself and getting to his feet.

"We just want you to be happy." His voice, as he says it, is quiet, but sincere. I don't doubt it, either.

"I am happy," I reply, feeling myself softening. "And I'll put more work into my studies in the future. I promise."

(This, if nothing else, should be the one advantage of not having Ken around anymore. I'll have lots more time on my hands come next semester.)

Dad smiles at me, before turning to select a new record. I settle back into the armchair, waiting for the next offering in today's selection of "greatest piano sections in rock history". What comes on is – 'School' by Supertramp. Of all the songs…

"Dad!" I protest.

Chuckling, Dad turns around to face me. "Hear them out, darling," he asks.

So, I do. And as the song unfolds its message, I can't help reflecting, that, for all everyone always pins Mum as the empathetic one, Dad is just as good, in his own way. Had he chided or upbraided me, I know I probably would have gone defiant and left the room. Now, I've made up my mind to do better next semester, just to make him proud.

Having remained standing by the record player, Dad is quick to put on the next record after Supertramp have finished and when he does, I can't help laughing. It's Al Stewart's 'The Year of the Cat'.

"One of George's favourites!" I declare happily. Then, after a second of thought, "Though he probably thinks he ought to be dedicated a century at least, not just a measly year."

"Very probably," agrees Dad. "That cat is quite the character."

Mum and Dad, it must be said, met George when they came to visit Joy and me in New York not too long after I moved into The Shoebox. Clever cat that he is, he made a point to like them both and was adored in return. Mum delightedly declared him to resemble Rusty, her own childhood cat, while Dad commented favourably on his purr. That they took to him can hardly be considered surprising though, seeing as George's super powers even managed to win over a dog person like Ken.

Watching Dad carefully put away the Supertramp record, his head nodding along to the instrumental intro of Al Stewart and his cat year, I realise that I probably won't get a better chance than this.

"I've met someone," I tell him, just a little hesitatingly.

Dad slides the record into its proper place on one of the shelves and looks over at me. "That's nice. Is he a fellow student?"

"No. He's from England," I reply, quite as if that was not a fairly nonsensical answer to the question he asked.

For a moment, there's puzzlement in Dad's face, but then he nods slowly. "What does he do?"

Oh, trust Dad to jump right to the difficult questions!

"He's… well… what I mean is… look, he…" Frustrated, I break off. I've found no better way to say this than when I struggled to tell my sisters. Only that now, there's no Ken around to help me out.

Over on the record player, Al Stewart finally starts singing. Dad watches me patiently, his eyes shining in amusement.

I take a deep breath. "He's a prince."

There. It sounds no less weird out loud than it did in my head.

Dad frowns in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't –"

"A prince," I interrupt quickly. "A real one. The kind that will be king one day."

Yeah. That doesn't sound much better either.

Still frowning, Dad opens his mouth once or twice, before finally coming up with, "If he's from England and one day will be… do I take that to mean that you're talking about…?"

But the words must seem strange to him as well, for he does not finish his question. Doesn't need to, either. It's clear what he meant to ask.

"Yes," I answer, biting my lip in nervousness. "He's the Prince of Wales to you, but to me… to me, he's just Ken."

Dad blinks rapidly. "And you are…?"

"Yes," I repeat quietly.

The music segues into the first saxophone solo.

"And for how long…?" asks Dad.

"Six months. A little bit more. We were friends before," I reply haltingly. Wrapping my arms tighter around my knees, I watch him for any sign of what he thinks of this, but so far, he just looks utterly baffled.

As the saxophone solo comes to an end, I can see him take a deep breath. "Is this… serious?"

I nod my head, the tiniest of movements. "I love him, Dad."

That does the trick.

Staggering over to his chair, Dad sits down on it heavily, supporting his body by placing his hands on his knees. Shaking his head in disbelief, he remarks, "At least that explains your mother's new found interest in the royal family."

"Yeah. Mum knew," I confirm, shifting slightly in my seat. "I asked her not to tell anyone though. Not even you. It was still so new, when she found out."

Dad exhales heavily. "She didn't tell me. I knew she was keeping a secret, but she said it was yours to tell and I would never want her to break your trust. But I never would have guessed it was _this_ secret either."

"I know it sounds surreal," I admit, my voice small. "It's true though. I'm not making this up. And I'm not crazy or anything,"

That gets Dad to look at me. "I know you're not making it up. It just came as a surprise, I must say."

That's one way of putting it.

Silence falls between us just as 'The Year of the Cat' comes to an end. This time, Dad shows no sign of getting up to put on a new record. He's just sitting there, staring into space, shaking his head once in a while.

So, I uncurl myself from the armchair, walk over to the shelves holding his records and flip through them, looking for another one that has a good piano section. Bypassing David Bowie's 'Life on Mars?' and Neil Young's 'After the Goldrush', I finally settle on Jethro Tull and 'Locomotive Breath', a song as remarkable for its use of the flute as it is for its piano intro.

I struggle a little to change the records, but do get it done on the second try. And when the first piano tunes reach his ears, that succeeds in rousing Dad from his thoughts.

"Good pick," he commends and smiles at me, though I can still see the wonder in his eyes. (Partly, maybe, because I've been known to declare the sound of Jethro Tull to be a little too 'out there' for my tastes.)

"Ken likes them," I reply with a shrug, aiming for nonchalance but still watching Dad closely out of the corner of my eye as I walk back to my chair.

Dad swallows heavily, but it's apparent that he, too, is trying to appear normal. "So, he has good taste in music then?"

"You'd approve," I nod. "Not for nothing, you're both of one mind when it comes to my lack of appreciation for Hendrix and Santana."

For a moment, Dad seems to consider this, before a small smile steals onto his lips. "Not even a real prince was able to convert you, I see."

"Got to stick with my principles," I retort loftily, though barely able to fight my own smile. Then, after a moment of thought, "And no, I do _not_ want to discuss principles right now."

Dad chuckles, but bows his head in acquiescence to my request. "I had no intention to," he assures. "If anything, I'm wondering…" He trails off, clearly looking for the right way to phrase this.

"Wondering what?" I prompt.

"You told me you loved him," Dad answers slowly. "I can't help wondering whether those feelings are reciprocated."

I nod once, firmly. "They are."

He looks more thoughtful than surprised at this and I love him for it.

"He went back to England just before I came here," I continue. "But he asked me whether I could see us staying together. It's not going to be easy, but he… well, he said he doesn't want to lose me, and asked me to give our relationship a try, even if it has to be long distance."

"And you said yes." The way Dad says it, it would be a question, but it isn't really.

"And I said yes," I confirm, the smile finally breaking through.

Dad nods slowly, looking pensive. "That is serious, indeed. Do you have any idea where this is heading?"

I shake my head. "No. None at all."

He, in turn, looks so taken aback that I can't help but laugh. "Maybe that's just the way I am, Dad. I'm not one for planning. I take life as it comes. I mean, yes, in a way, this is completely crazy, but it's also just another path in my life. I've got no idea where it's heading, but I'd like to find out. And regardless of where it ends, I have a feeling it might be worth it for the journey alone."

"Hmm…" makes Dad and I know that he, like everyone I've told, thinks I'm walking into this naïvely and totally unprepared. Maybe they're right, too. Very probably, they are. But it's the way I'm doing this and if I end up falling flat on my face, well… then it was my own choice that tripped me up.

I don't voice any of this, but something must have shown on my face, because Dad allows the subject to rest. "A prince," he mutters to himself instead, pulling a somewhat comical face, making me laugh. When he looks at me, there's the familiar twinkle in his eye and I relax back into my chair. Looks like we've weathered the strangest part of this.

As if on cue, 'Locomotive Breath' ends (aptly, too) and Dad gets up to change the record once more. When, after he's done, the sound of guitar strings wafts over to me, it takes me just a second too long to recognise the song. 'Lucky Man' by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. (No piano piece, this one. It's got a weird synthesizer instead.)

 _He had white horses  
And ladies by the score  
All dressed in satin  
And waiting by the door_

 _Ooooh, what a lucky man he was  
…_

" _Dad_!"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Love Hurts' (written by Boudleaux Bryant, released by Nazareth in 1975)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Welcome back! So nice to be hearing from you again :). I was thinking about you the other day and starting to wonder whether you're alright.  
I'm really glad to hear that you friend is doing better. That sounded very worrying, when they didn't know what was wrong with her! I'm also happy and a little honoured that DC was able to distract both of you a little in a difficult situation. And I hope exams went well? :)  
In answer to your last review, you are, of course, totally right that at the moment, Ken and Rilla don't have a totally equal relationship. He's in charge more than her and he has information that she doesn't have. That's not good, especially not long-term. Part of why Ken isn't forthcoming with information about his family is for story-telling reasons - by keeping Rilla in the dark about the royals initially, I can reveal all of that in small doses, which hopefully keeps things interesting for longer ;). For another, I actually mean for that relationship to be on unequal ground at the moment, because that's a major plot arc. By the end of this story, if I get it right, Rilla and Ken will be complete equals. Their (especially her) journey to that point is an important part of this story._  
 _I loved reading your thoughts on Jake. I have rather a soft spot for him (Izzie, too, but Jake especially) and I really means a lot that you like him as well. That his behaviour and his worries ring true to you, who has known a similar situation, also means very much to me. (I really,_ really _hope your Dad recovered?)_  
 _I wouldn't be too worried about the PPOs renting out that flat, because to Rilla, that doesn't mean any more surveillance than she was under anyway. Basically, the PPOs only enter the rented flat when Ken is with Rilla, so it stands empty when she's alone. They can view the front entrance of her house from it, but can't look into her apartment proper. And she always knew that whenever Ken visited her, his PPOs were waiting in cars on the street, so their presence is nothing new to her. What the flat did was move them from an uncomfortable car to a more comfortable place to stay. Apart from that, nothing changed from how it was before and the change that_ did _happen concerns Rilla only peripherally (if anything, the PPOs are going to be_ less _watchful in their flat than they were in the car, so it might even mean less surveillance for her)._  
 _As you said, a long distance relationship will certainly be a challenge for them (though there's another one coming up later in the story, which will be even more difficult, but right now, it's that or breaking up. Ken has to go back, Rilla isn't ready to follow him yet (not to speak of her studies), so they can only try and see whether it works. At least they can blame this separation on someone else, so there's no resentment between Rilla and Ken themselves. Alas, moving on, I hope this first Halifax chapter delivered? I promised Gilbert for quite some time, so it's been a long time coming. I don't have much experience in writing Gilbert, but I do hope I managed to get him right :)._

 _To wow:_  
 _I must admit that it does amuse me a little bit how many readers get invested in Rilla's financial situation (and that's definitely not just you!). I'm saying that with lots of affection, because I know that I would wonder about it as well, were I a reader in this situation ;). We'll get there in time though, pinky promise! It's a little plot point that ought to be quite fun, once I get around to writing it._  
 _Rilla's rain check, alas, turned out a bit gentler than I meant for it to, because Gilbert didn't want to be as strict as I had planned. But he got his point across and she will study harder in the future, so I think it was ultimately a successful talk._  
 _Leslie definitely has a mental illness (which will become a big plot point in the future). I haven't yet decided whether she's bipolar or whether it's "just" a depression and the happier times are when she's periodically doing better, but it's definitely serious. And while I think that the press and most of the public have an inkling that_ something _is the matter with her, they were never given a definite diagnosis. The palace might not be able to hide that there is something going on with her, but they could probably hide the extent of it and leave everyone guessing._  
 _Ken's government internship is designed to be as apolitical as possible, also involving time with the opposition and with parliament. This will be_ his _government one day, so they're trying to give him a good look in and show him how the politics behind it work. He's just trailing different people, not getting involved himself. Very similar to what he did at the UN, actually._  
 _Jake, funnily enough, is the only one brave enough to voice what everyone is thinking but no-one is saying: that, if this is supposed to go the distance, there's no way around Rilla moving to the UK at some point. She isn't ready for that yet, but it has to come up again and it definitely will. (Look out for Grandma Bertha having an opinion about it!)_

 _To Aoggfan:_  
 _Thank_ you _for your lovely review and your kind words! I'm so glad you're enjoying this story and it made_ me _smile to hear it :). Definitely made my Saturday! I hope you'll like what I have planned for all these characters in the future and would love to hear from you again :)._


	24. Still time to change the road you're on

_Halifax, Canada  
August 2011_

 **Still time to change the road you're on**

"So, have you already decided on a colour scheme?" asks Mollie as she plops down on the couch and folds her legs beneath her.

Betty carefully sets down a tray on the side table and starts pouring out tea. "Not really. The wedding date is set for July, so I thought something summery would be nice."

She hands me a cup of tea and adds, "Here. It's called 'Snow Crystal'. The tea, I mean."

Accepting the cup with a smile, I catch whiff of something decidedly citrus-y that does not much remind me of snow _or_ crystals. A closer look at one of the paper tags still hanging out of the pot reveals the tea to be a mixture of lime and elderberry.

"Why would they name it that?" I wonder, scrunching up my nose in thought.

Betty smiles and shrugs. "No idea. It's sold as a winter tea, but I always liked it better for summer."

(And right she is, too. If we have to drink tea at all in the middle of August, at least make it a nice and light one.)

Blowing air over the hot surface, I take a careful sip, and yes, there's a vaguely lemony taste that reminds me of everything but winter. "That's some weird marketing," I decide, setting the cup down beside me to let it cool a little more.

"And now that we've established that, could we go back to more important topics?" comes a pointed remark from the couch, where Mollie is watching us with raised eyebrows.

Betty hurries to nod, handing a cup of tea to Mollie. "As I said, something summery would be nice. I would like it to be cheerful."

"It is a cheerful event," I agree amiably, watching Mollie refuse the cookies Betty offers her and taking one myself just on principle. (White chocolate and cranberries. It's not half bad.) With me settled in the armchair, Betty sits down next to Mollie on the couch.

Thing is, it's not that I _dislike_ Mollie, but she can be a little full of herself at times. Back in school, Betty and I didn't have much to do with her, but the two of them grew closer after I left and anyway, Mollie is the sister of the groom. That alone predestines her to be one of the bridesmaids. Me, I probably got chosen for sentimental reasons, and the rest of the bridal party is to be made up of a cousin of Betty and a cousin of Liam (and Mollie) as well as two friends of Betty's from work. For today's planning session, it's just the three of us though.

Mollie inclines her head slightly. "Maybe a soft blue and a light peach?" she suggests.

Huh? Pastels? What's cheerful about _those_?

"Yellow," I immediately counter, taking a deliberate bite out of my cookie. "It's the most cheerful colour out there."

Looking from one to the other, Betty saves herself by taking a long sip of her tea. Which isn't really how this is supposed to go, is it? This is her wedding, after all.

I just want to remind her that _she's_ the one who has to decide, but Mollie has no such scruples. "Yellow," she repeats slowly. "Could be a bit bright."

"Yellow is for the accents. The 'canvas' has to be something more muted," I explain, somewhat impatiently. (That I don't want to have to wear a yellow bridesmaid dress is, of course, not only peripherally related to this. Yellow does nothing for my complexion.)

"Such as?" asks Mollie, her eyebrows once again raised so high that the more snide-y part of me wants to inform her that doing that too often is just going to make her forehead become wrinkled that much sooner.

Instead, I pick up my teacup again and take a sip as I think about which hue to pair with yellow for a nice wedding colour scheme.

I don't come to a conclusion though, because Betty choses that moment to answer, "Blue would be nice. Blue like the sky in summer."

Mollie nods slowly at this, but I set down my teacup again and turn to face Betty more firmly. "You don't have to pick yellow and blue just because that's what we suggested," I remark carefully. "It's your wedding. You decide the colours."

"But I really do like yellow and blue," persist Betty, looking very much like she means it, too. "Don't you think it'd make for a good colour scheme?"

"Actually, yes," I answer with a shrug. "A nice sky blue as a background colour –"

"And yellow and a stronger blue for the accents," finishes Mollie, appearing quite taken by the idea. A second later, she accidentally looks my way and as our eyes meet, I know she's as flabbergasted at I am to suddenly find herself agreeing with me.

Betty though, is obviously very happy at this outcome. "That sounds lovely. What shade blue would you suggest?"

"Sapphire. Or else, a bright royal blue," replies Mollie immediately (and yes, I totally flinch when she says 'royal', much as I try to suppress it).

"That could be a good colour for the bridesmaid dresses," Betty remarks thoughtfully, as I take a sip of tea to compose myself again.

Mollie nods, even forgetting to look blasé in her eagerness. "And a yellow sash as an accent."

Having recovered, I set down the cup again. "How about yellow shoes instead? And yellow posies to tie them in. The bridal bouquet could be yellow and different shades of blue."

"Good idea!" commends Mollie. (Seriously, the last time we agreed on this much was when we both upbraided Liam for dancing with Cherry at our graduation. I got to him first, but my telling off had nothing on Mollie's.)

"I like sunflowers," Betty chimes in. "We could use sunflowers, couldn't we?"

"Sure," I nod. "Sunflowers are lovely, especially for a summer wedding."

"Adds a bit of a bohemian touch," agrees Mollie with a pleased expression.

Lightly tapping my fingers against the armrest of my chair, I add, "And while we're thinking outside the box a little… how about blue shoes for the bride?"

"A built-in 'something blue'. Yes, I like it," declares Mollie after a moment of thought, having apparently resigned herself to mysteriously agreeing with me today.

We both turn to look at Betty, who does, it must be said, look quite happy. Calling in Mollie and me, there was always going to be a danger of Betty adapting to please us (she's a wonder of tact, which sometimes works against her), but she looks very taken with the picture we've painted together, so I guess that's alright then.

And yes, she nods quite firmly. "So do I. It sounds very beautiful. Thank you for helping me with this."

"Anytime," replies Mollie and toasts Betty with her teacup. I just smile her way while pulling a notepad closer to jot down what we've decided on. Going about this in an organised fashion has never hurt anyone.

Quite how true that statement is, I learn as the afternoon wears on and we collectively come up with ever more subjects that need to be discussed and decisions that need to be made. Who knew planning a wedding could be so _stressful_?

It takes us the better part of three hours and another pot of tea ('Angel magic' this one, a blend of raspberry and vanilla that doesn't taste very vanilla-y at all) to get even a rough outline of everything written down on that notepad. When I finally make it home, I feel more than a little knackered, and genuinely consider taking a little nap before supper.

Unfortunately, Grandma Bertha has other ideas.

She returned from her latest trip (which involved camping, which is just… ugh) just in time to accompany us up to the Island next week. And while she got her own place in Halifax back when Mum and Dad moved the last time, she can often be found at their flat anyway. That is true today as well, for when I step in the hallway, I immediately see her standing in the doorway to the living room. It's clear that she has been waiting for me.

"Hey Gran," I greet cheerfully, hoping that I might yet slip past her and take that nap after all.

But no such luck.

"No need to take off your shoes. We're taking a walk," announces Grandma Bertha. That's when I see that she, too, is wearing shoes, and know that I have lost. She clearly planned this and since she did, she won't let me wiggle out of it either.

Alas, nothing for it but to comply and hope it will be over soon. If I can make her settle on a short walk, I might be able to catch a shortened nap afterwards at least.

Walking past me briskly, Grandma Bertha is out of the door without waiting for me to actually agree to her proposal. (Possibly, my agreement is regarded superfluous anyway.) I hurry to follow, pulling the door shut behind me without locking it in the knowledge that for a couple of weeks longer, we can still trust in Shirley to be home. Grandma Bertha has already started on the stairs at such a pace that I struggle a little to follow. (My exercise regime was the first thing to fall by the wayside when Ken happened, even before my study. Though, having said that, when it came to general fitness, Grandma Bertha always had me beat.)

"How was your afternoon?" asks Grandma once we're out on the street. She's thankfully walking a little slower now, presumably so that we can actually talk.

"It was nice. We started planning Betty's wedding," I answer while watching her out of the corner of my eye to determine quite what she wants to talk to me about.

Grandma makes a sound that tells me she has _opinions_ on this. "How old is your Betty now?"

"Twenty-two. Same as me," I reply, switching my handbag from one shoulder to the other. I have a feeling that Grandma actually knows quite well that Betty is around my age. Which means that she's asking primarily to prove a point. Thus, I quickly add, "But they won't be married for almost another year."

Both Grandma and Mum were in their mid-twenties when they married, so it's not like she can comment on Betty's age. Though I'm fairly certain this has got nothing to do with Betty anyway.

For a moment, we both lapse into silence as we walk along leafy Bloomingdale Terrace. Grandma seems to consider what to ask next and I have resolved not to speak too much until I've figured out what this is about.

"And how long has she known her groom?" comes the next question, just as we cross Parkwood Place.

I give an airy wave. "Oh, ages. They started dating about the same time Carl and I did. Only that they stuck to it. Obviously."

"He's a lovely boy, Carl Meredith," Grandma remarks pensively.

"Of course he is," I agree. "And I adore him six ways from Sunday. We never would have worked out as a couple though. I mean, he spent the spring living with his mother at her commune!"

Cecilia Meredith, always a free spirits by all accounts, tried to turn herself into a good and proper minister's wife for almost a decade back in the eighties, before giving up on it and hightailing it out west, where she found a new home in one of those hippie communes that time forgot. John Meredith was left to raise the children (getting added help from Rosemary four years later) and though I guess their lives were more well-adjusted for it, Carl has always been pining after his mother. Just a toddler when his parents divorced, he turned Cecilia into his golden role model in a way that Freud (and Nan) would surely have a field day with.

Grandma makes a thoughtful sound. "Did he, now?"

"Yes," I confirm. "And now tell me, could you picture _me_ living in a commune? Even for a month? Even for a _day_?"

That gets her to laugh and I feel quite pleased with myself. "No, darling," she agrees. "You wouldn't last an hour."

Yeah. Probably not.

"Having said that," Grandma continues, now serious again, "those hippies might have it wrong with their stance on personal hygiene, but they do have some worthy ideas."

"Free love?" I suggest innocently. "Liberal use of certain 'herbs'?"

As predicted, this garners me a withering look from Grandma. "Be serious," she chides. "I was talking about equality and respect and basic human rights."

Equality? So _that's_ what this is about?

"Gran," I whine. "Can we not discuss that right now? It's such a lovely day. Why spoil it?"

"Because I have thought about what you told me yesterday and I would like to talk about it," Grandma answers immediately, her voice firm.

Yesterday, I told her about Ken and me. She 'hmm'-ed and nodded a lot, then declared that she had to think on it. Which she has apparently now done.

I sigh heavily, but Grandma won't be rushed. It's only after we have turned left on Jubilee Road that she carefully remarks, "I must admit to feeling a little uneasy at the thought of one of my granddaughters potentially becoming a broodmare for an institution as archaic as… that one."

"A… a… a _broodmare_?" I splutter. "Gran!"

She purses her lips. "Alright, that might not have been the most delicate way of putting it. But my point still stands."

Taking a deep breath, I try to line up my thoughts to form a coherent argument. "Look. Okay. First thing, I'm not breeding anything. Remember, I couldn't even keep those fruit flies alive for a week back during eighth year biology. No one would trust me with breeding even a hamster, much less… anything bigger. And second of all, I'm much too young to –"

I break off just when I realise what she did there.

"To get married?" Grandma finishes with a fine little smile.

"What works for Betty doesn't have to work for me," I grumble, feeling irritated.

"Fair enough," agrees Grandma and nods briskly.

With a motion of her hand, she indicates for me to turn right on the footpath leading to Conrose Park. It's also commonly called 'The Horsefield', which is a much more fitting name, as it's really just a somewhat sorry looking stretch of grass. Its dubious claim to fame is that it's a place where teenagers like to convene to get wasted at night. (It was, incidentally, also where Nan and Di gave me my first beer, but I suppose that's neither here nor there.)

"Why does everyone always want to talk to me about marriage anyway?" I ask, because I already had that talk with Mrs Weisz, didn't I? "I'm not getting married. I'm not having children. I'm barely twenty-two, I'm still at college and I haven't even known him for a year!"

Grandma raises a single eyebrow. "So you're breaking up with him?"

I stop. "What? _No_!"

"One or the other will have to happen," Grandma reminds, her voice gentler now. "I merely want to check whether you're prepared either way."

"Oh, you just want for me to break up with him and be done with it, don't you?" I ask somewhat sullenly, as I reluctantly start walking again.

"I can't deny that I am not a fan of… the institution, nor of the family behind it," Grandma intones, clearly mindful that out here, anyone could listen.

I roll my eyes at her. "Yes, equality, democracy, yadda, yadda. Nothing I haven't heard before." (In fact, I'm a little bit surprised Joy has so far refrained from given me that particular 'talk'.)

"Doesn't make it any less true," points out Grandma. Then, leaning closer to me, "You can't deny there's something inherently wrong about distributing power and riches on someone just for the accident of their birth."

"And you can't deny that elections can't be the be all and end all either. I mean, we voted and got Harper," I argue back.

Grandma clucks her tongue. "Not an ideal situation, granted. But elections are based on the will of the people, and the people elected him."

" _Some_ of the people," I amend.

"24 per cent of the people, to be exact," Grandma concedes. "But that wasn't my point."

No, I bet it wasn't.

We step on the grassy field of the park that, at this hour, with the families mostly gone and the teenagers not yet arrived, is fairly empty. Which is just as well, I guess, given the nature of our conversation.

"As you know, I do not believe, on principle, in hereditary transmission of power, even if it's a limited amount of power," Grandma remarks. "I feel uneasy at the thought of you supporting such a system."

"I'm not supporting _anything_!" I cry, exasperated. (Causing a woman with a pram to turn and look at us, immediately reminding me to keep my voice lowered.) "This isn't about politics. This is just me being with a man I care for. A lot."

Grandma looks like she wants to argue, but I tilt my chin forward stubbornly and after a moment of thought, she changes tracks. "Look at it this way, darling: While I can't deny that so far, our monarchy hasn't made much of a difference to my life either way, it's shaping up to be something that will make a difference to yours. I think we should talk about it."

"I _did_ talk about it," I mutter darkly. "I talked about it with Mum and with Dad and with Joy and even with the twins. No-one seems to be able to leave well enough alone about it, so you might just have to get in line."

Because Mum, especially, always comes back to whether I have an idea where this is leading or how this will end and whether I'm prepared for what might come. And while I appreciate her concern, it's also getting old. Fast.

Grandma, alas, has apparently no plans to get in line. "This is a deeply archaic institution we're talking about," she notes instead. "One that has been known to throw individuals to the wolves to supposedly protect 'the family'. And one that counts both class prejudice and misogyny among its foundation stones."

"And that concerns me _how_?" I ask, doing little to mask my annoyance.

"Because you're an outsider, a foreigner, a woman and middle-class to boot," Grandma immediately retorts. "Your… boyfriend might love you all he wants, but there are people in that organisation who won't be pleased about it. People who could easily eat you for breakfast."

And just like that, my mind flashes back to Pilkington and how entitled he acted about taking over my apartment, and to Beckett and how he never really manages to hide his annoyance at having to deal with me at all.

"He would never allow it," I persist. And it's only when the words have left my lips that I realise it's precisely _not_ what I should have said. Because it makes me appear like I depend on a man – worse, a _prince_ – to defend me, and while Disney has done a lot to romanticise that notion, Grandma Bertha is not in agreement.

"Are you so sure about that?" she asks, arching an eyebrow upwards. "Your mother said he doesn't have the best track record when it comes to keeping in touch, much less keeping his minions in rein."

Mum said _what_?

I dig my feet into the ground, refusing to go forward. "You _talked_ about me? Behind my back?"

"I was in need of some further information to make up my mind about this situation," Grandma answers primly. "As I did not think you'd be forthcoming, I instead decided to ask Anne last night. She was reluctant, but eventually provided me with what I needed to know."

Yes, and I can't even really blame her, much as I'd like to. Mum is great about keeping secrets (further proven by how well she kept mine even from Dad for half a year), but Grandma is even better at eliciting any and all information she feels she has a right or a need to know. It's what made her such a great journalist back in the day, but it's also what makes her somewhat irritating to debate with.

"You could have come to me," I argue anyway, throwing her a dark look. "I might have told you."

"No, you wouldn't have," is her brisk reply. "You would have tried to convince me that everything is fine. However, I'm here to help you, so I need to know the truth."

The more petulant part of me wants to snap that I never _asked_ for her help, so she can stick it where the sun doesn't shine, but there's a voice – sounding suspiciously like Grandmother Marilla – reminding me that that's no way to speak to your elders, so I swallow the words down. Instead, I try an amended, "If I need help, I will say so. But thanks for offering anyway."

Not that it has any effect on Grandma. She just waves my remark aside impatiently while asking, "Has he gotten better about keeping in touch?"

Deep breath, Rilla.

We've walked around the baseball diamond, now heading towards the small playground at the other end of the park. (It's really not very big.) I can feel Grandma watching me alertly, but take my time to answer anyway, if only to prove a point.

"Yes, he has. We're having phone dates," I explain finally, though somewhat reluctantly.

Grandma frowns. "Phone dates?"

"Like an appointment of sorts. On Sundays, we both get our schedules out and work out at which time we can talk on any day of the week. It's not romantic, but it works out fine." My voice, I notice, has become a little defensive, though I don't even have any reason for it. It _is_ working out fine.

Mostly, we try to talk just before Ken goes to bed, which is usually in the early evening for me. Sometimes, when he has an hour or two during the day, our 'dates' happen a little earlier, and if nothing else works, I just go to bed a little later and he gets up a little earlier. We don't manage to speak every day, but most of the time. And if not, there's always messages. (He's also trying to get someone to set up a secure channel for video calls, but apparently, they're still looking into it.)

"Hmm," makes Grandma. "And am I right in saying that it's mostly him presenting you with his schedule and you arranging yours to fit around that?"

I give an exasperated sigh in return. "So what? He has obligations and I don't. Take away that he is… well, who he is, and it's the same as if he had a normal job. What's the problem with me fitting my time around his when it's no trouble for me? It doesn't matter whether I go see Betty at noon or an hour later, but he can't very well leave some unfortunate little orphans waiting for him!"

"That might very well be," nods Grandma. "But I'm talking about –"

"Equality," I interrupt, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. The problem that you and Mum and Joy and Di have, always with your _principles_ , is that principles aren't very practical. I could refuse to adapt my plans, sure, but that would just mean I'd get to hear from him much less than I do. I don't want that, so why should I do it? Just to prove a _point_?"

"Maybe not," Grandma answers slowly. "But you've got to ask yourself where this is heading. It's just phone calls today, but what happens when you're still together next year? He won't be moving to Canada for you. He won't be switching 'jobs' or changing his life for you. Maybe he would, who knows, but he's not going to. I am just worried that you will find yourself adapting completely to his life, without him giving you much in return."

She looks at me, but I turn my head away, pressing my lips together, staring ahead at the now deserted playground.

Grandma sighs. "The question is, my darling – where does it end?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Stairway to Heaven' (written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, released by Led Zeppelin in 1971)._

* * *

 _To Aoggfan:_  
 _I'm really very glad to hear that Gilbert fulfilled expectations! With him and Anne, there's always extra pressure to get the right, because people have_ opinions _on how they're supposed to be. But no-one seems to want to pelt me with rotten eggs yet, so I take that as a good sign ;).  
As for posting, I'm pretty good about keeping a schedule. Baring any unforeseen catastrophes, I usually post at roughly the same time, which is Wednesday midday to afternoon for Americans, Wednesday evening for Europeans, Wednesday to Thursday night for anyone in Asia and finally, Thursday morning for my readers in Upside Down Land (read: Australia). I don't know where you hail from, but I hope that this gives you a general idea :)._

 _To wow:  
I love that you enjoy my image of Gilbert. When I started out writing this chapter, I immediately pictured him, all relaxed in his study, feet up, listening to music instead of doing what he should be doing. He's certainly driven and ambitious, but he does know to relax, our Gilbert ;). (And you might be pleased to know that all children regularly return to see their parents, just that some of them come to Ingleside, rather than Halifax. Di, for example, comes for the bi-yearly Ingleside family reunions, but doesn't have the time to come to Halifax in addition to that.)  
I'm also glad that you agree with my take on Rilla here. She is part of a scarily clever family, but she herself is a) not academically ambitious and b) just not that brilliant. She isn't stupid, just normal. But in a family of near geniuses, "normal" can easily make you feel inadequate. And on top of that, she lacks something to strive for, so in many ways, she's just drifting through life right now, while those around her all have a goal to work towards. It makes her feel a bit left out and it's something that will definitely come up again in the course of the story. She will never be brilliant, but I hope to be able to give her something that she is both very good at and actually enjoys. Gilbert, as you said, doesn't know what it feels like to _not _have ambitions in life, but he tries his best to be kind and supportive anyway. He doesn't want to judge or make her feel bad, he just wants her to be happy and be her best. She feels it, too, because otherwise, she would have clammed up and stopped talking to him. Which really speaks to how well he knows her and knows how to talk to her!  
I swear on my cat's left hind paw (the most sacred thing I know) that no-one if going broke over tuition ;). Not Anne, not Gilbert, not anyone else. It's being paid, but there's no going broke over it. Promise! (I also think Shirley might have secured a merit-based scholarship of sorts? He's enough_ _of a computer whizz kid and Georgia Tech isn't as obvious as some other colleges, so I think it might be a possibility.)_

 _To AnneShirley:  
I typed out a long reply to this and then my cat threw the keyboard to the floor and pressed the back key and now it's gone. I shall try to replicate it, but forgive me if the second endeavour isn't as good as the first.  
First of all, I totally know what you mean about holidays. I had some days off last week and I didn't get anything productive done. I did nice things, but nothing meaningful. Must be a rule of life ;). But I'm glad that you managed to squeeze in this review anyway, because it's certainly a _very _good one. I can vouch for this!  
Did you really secure a place to a school by singing rebellious songs _about _school? That is glorious! Don't let anyone ever say a working knowledge of old rock songs isn't helpful in life ;). I'm also glad to hear that exams went well and feel you about having to wait so long for results. That's awful! However, it's very good to know that your friend is feeling better. I hope she improves even further and does so very soon!  
You're right in saying that Rilla realising she neglected her NY friends somewhat also made her make more of an effort with her Halifax friends here. Though I think it's also natural that when you move away, old friendships loosen with time and space. It's normal to regroup whenever you're all back home, but it's never quite the same again and that's true here. Betty was once her best friend and while they still care for one another, they aren't as close as they used to be. (As, I think, is also evident in this chapter.) But they're both making an effort and that counts for a lot.  
As you said, the last chapter was also meant to show us more about the Blythe family and especially how Rilla sees herself and her place in it. She isn't as clever as most of the others and that stings, and she also doesn't have anything to really strive for, which really sets her apart a bit and possibly not in a good way. She knows it, too, and I think it bothers her more than she lets on. She also does need to grow up, but that was never an easy thing to do and it isn't for her. She's very much wafting around right now, trying to figure things out and, yes, making mistakes while she does. And she's sure lucky she has such understanding and supporting parents! I mean, I wanted Gilbert to be more angry as well, but he just refused to be. He wanted to be a cool dad, I think ;). (As for Di, she does come home, just not to Halifax. She comes to the Ingleside family reunions over Christmas and in the summer, but is very busy with her studies, so doesn't have time to come to Halifax as well. But she sees her parents at least during those two occasions a year and keeps in phone contact with them throughout.)  
Music is really a way for Rilla and Gilbert to connect here, and also communicate to a certain extent. It's also what gives them back their "normal" after she dropped her bombshell. In a way, them joking about Hendrix and Santana is like saying "look, this is weird, but most things are still the same". It's what Rilla needed from her father, so Gilbert very much delivered. He has, above everything, her happiness in mind. (Which is maybe why he refused to be more angry?) Oh, and while I didn't consciously think of the scene with canon Gilbert in his study while writing this one, I might easily have been unconsciously inspired by it. Whereas Gilbert's aversion to having his vinyls re-ordered comes straight from my own father. He detests anyone so much as touching his ;).  
_


	25. A white knight on his steed

_New York City, USA  
October 2011_

 **A white knight on his steed**

With a satisfying _thud_ , I close my text book on game theory.

"Two hours, George," I announce with a look at my phone's clock. "We've earned a break, don't you think?"

Midterms are looming large and after the mess of last semester, I resolved to do better this time. It involves a lot more studying and a lot less fun, but I suppose that is the nature of college when taken seriously. And while I still much prefer the fun times, I am not one to break my word. I promised Dad and I promised myself that I'd work harder this time and therefore, I do – even if a large part of that is out of sheer stubbornness. I hate admitting that I got it wrong.

George yawns at me.

"Hey, you lazy bum," I laugh. "A little bit of activity, if you will. _You_ didn't earn your break yet, methinks."

But George just considers me dispassionately, clearly of the opinion that he did more than enough by mentally supporting me through my study session. Besides, we humans just never appreciate how tiring it can be to take a nap. Positively _draining_.

Stretching out my legs in front of me, I pick up my phone again, checking for new messages. There's one from Chelsea, confirming our library date for Wednesday, and one from Nia inviting me to a bowling outing with some fellow students on Friday evening. Mum simply asks how I am and Joy wrote to enquire when I plan to pick up the children for our trip to the zoo on Sunday. (We watched _Madagascar_ some weeks ago. Izzie is a great fan of zebra Marty, while Jake is more partial to the penguins and I have a lingering fondness for Melman, the hypochondriac giraffe.)

There's no message from Ken, but then, I didn't really expect one. He told me he'd be busy today and anyway, we're scheduled to talk this evening. And while a phone call can never be _enough_ , it's all we've got right now. (At least they got the secure video call thing going, which is certainly an improvement.)

I still miss him like crazy, of course. It was more bearable when I was in Halifax, because Halifax never feels permanent these days, and when the entire family convened on the Island, I was pretty busy and thus, distracted the entire time. It was a lovely time, too (excepting a trip down to Avonlea to visit Aunt Mary Maria, who took over Grandfather John and Grandmother Marilla's house for her annual summer visit), so I didn't get much time to miss Ken.

It's been different since my return to New York. He came for a visit on the weekend before classes began and while the rest of the country celebrated Labor Day, we were holed up in my Shoebox, not letting anyone intrude into our togetherness, save for an afternoon coffee chat with Mrs Weisz. But it's been over a month since he left again and this time, I'm feeling his absence much more acutely.

My life is keeping me plenty busy, so it's not like I sit around moping and pining for him all day. And, rationally speaking, I know that it's primarily the fact that he is gone that enables me to spend the necessary amount of time on my studies, my work and the people important to me. Not having at least every other night reserved for Ken means that I suddenly have much more time to dispense on the other aspects of my life.

Still, I _miss_ him. I miss him something awful.

Somehow, over the course of the last semester, I got so used to having him around, that my apartment now feels horribly empty when it's just George and me in it. Perhaps that's why it only really hit home when I came back, that, for the next eight or so months, we'll have to do with calls and messages and maybe the occasional visit. (And who knows what happens after that anyway.) Ken had become part of the New York side of my life and without him, that side feels somehow not complete anymore.

With a sigh, I push the book away and stand up. Just five minutes ago, I was so pleased at a study session well spent, but just like that, I've worked myself into a funk again.

Over on the bed, George rolls himself on his back, stretching all four paws into the air. (It's deceptive though. He only wants you to _believe_ that he wants his belly scratched. In reality, he wants to maul any hand that's foolish enough to try.)

Letting my gaze drift over to the window, I quickly assess the weather. It's not quite an Indian summer, but it's looking dry and reasonably pleasant.

"What do you say, George? Shall we go for a run before Mrs Weisz expects us for coffee?" I ask the cat. The only thing I have left on my agenda for tonight is a last read through of an essay that compares Mary Wollstonecraft's work with that of her daughter, Mary Shelley. It's mostly finished though, and not due until next week anyway, so there's nothing keeping me from taking a break.

George rolls himself on his side again, stretching out his front paws luxuriously.

"Alright," I concede with a smile. "No run for you."

He'll probably go on the prowl again tonight, but right now, he looks like not even an earthquake could dislodge him from the bed. Maybe especially not an earthquake.

Giving up on my, admittedly never promising attempt at rousing the cat, I grab my workout clothes instead, exchanging my slouchy sweatpants for a pair of leggings and putting on a sports bra. I have just reached for a t-shirt, when there's a loud knock at the door.

"Huh? Are you expecting anyone, George?" I enquire, but George just blinks at me, clearly _very_ bored, and refrains from answering.

T-shirt in hand, I walk over to peer through the spyhole – and immediately rip open the door, my half-dressed state quite forgotten.

"Hello, my love," greets Ken and grins at me.

And I'd be lying if I claimed I didn't squeal at the sight of him, because I totally do. I also throw my arms around his neck and he, laughing, catches me, wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me off my feet for a moment.

"What are you _doing_ here?" I ask, strangely breathless, once I'm back on my feet. I keep my arms clasped tightly around him though. I'm not letting him go this easily.

"Seeing you," he answers, outwardly earnest, but with mischief in his eyes. "I missed you, so I came to see you."

"Do be serious!" I chide, slapping his shoulder. "I know you're here to see me. But why didn't you tell me you'd be coming?"

"I wanted to surprise you." And isn't he pleased at having pulled it off? His expression, at least, is mighty smug.

I hum appreciatively, letting my thumb brush over the back of his neck. "Who let you into the house?"

"Mrs Weisz. Who else?" is his easy answer. One of his hands wanders upwards, splaying out to cover my back and I shiver slightly as his skin meets my own.

My brain is slightly distracted by the closeness of him, but luckily, my mouth can usually be relied upon to keep talking, even unsupervised. "And how many cups of coffee did she foist on you before allowing you to come upstairs?"

Ken laughs, a soft rumble in his chest. "None at all. I'm also under strict orders to inform you that you're forbidden from coming to see her until after I'm gone."

"Looks like those romance novels were educational after all," I reply, feeling pleased when that draws another laugh from him.

Closing my hands around the lapels of his coat, I pull him with me as I move backwards into the apartment. The door falls shut behind him with a most satisfying sound. Immediately, I curl myself closer against him, turning my face upwards for a kiss and he's only too willing to oblige.

After that, things look to be moving in a most welcome direction, until Ken suddenly pulls away, raising his head away from mine. His voice, as he speaks, sounds forcibly controlled. "No. Don't."

Raising both eyebrows at him, I slowly draw my hands away from where they had reached his belt buckle. I'm no fool and he's no stranger to me. Whatever his mouth his saying, no other part of his body is backing it up.

Seemingly realising that he's giving off rather mixed signals, Ken shakes his head with a rueful smile. "That's not what I meant."

Yeah. I didn't think he meant it either.

Thus encouraged, I lean forward again, my hands sliding over his chest. As he keeps his head unbend, I slowly start kissing my way along his jaw.

He lets go of a shuddering breath. "Keep doing that and I'm going to carry you over to that bed and have my way with you." A beat. "If we make it to the bed at all."

"Well, who's complaining?" I purr.

(Because really, wasn't that the plan all along?)

Taking a deep breath, Ken reaches for my hands, stilling their movements. "Please believe me when I say that I have every intention to ravish you before this evening is over –," he begins.

I pull back abruptly, drawing my hands out from underneath his. " _Ravish_?" I interrupt, feeling a giggle rise within me. "Looks like someone has been reading Mrs Weisz's romance novels on the sly!"

" _But_ ," Ken continues pointedly, ignoring my remark, "before that, we're going on a date."

That gets my attention.

"A date?" I repeat, eyeing him with something between wariness and disbelief.

"A date," he confirms with a smile.

"Like, a real one?" I ask slowly. "Out in the open? Someplace where normal people go to?"

Ken laughs. "I hope so, at least."

I frown, thinking this over. "But isn't it dangerous? I mean, couldn't it get us discovered?"

"If we're being technical, everything we do together could get us discovered," answers Ken with a shrug. "But I have a most cunning plan that should, ideally, allow us to have that date without anyone being the wiser."

"A most cunning plan, yes?" I tease. "And to what do I owe the honour?"

"Why, it's our first year anniversary today. Don't tell me you forgot?" He makes quite a show of appearing wounded, but beneath that, I can see he's actually very pleased at having upped me.

Thus, I pointedly turn my Shirley nose up at him. "I'll have you know that our anniversary isn't until December."

"Ah, _that_ kind of anniversary. Yes, that's in December," agrees Ken, ducking away with a grin when I swat at him for the emphasis he put on the _that_.

Ignoring the dirty look I give him, he folds my hands into his own, and declares, "This fine day, exactly a year ago, was when I first beheld your lovely face."

Oh yes. He most _definitely_ stole Mrs. Weisz's romance novels!

"Pretty words won't get you anywhere," I inform Ken haughtily. "I, too, have read the occasional novel and Jane Austen taught me long ago never to trust the man doling out practiced flattery."

"Jane Austen, huh?" he asks, eyes shining in amusement. "So that makes me…?"

I give an elaborate shrug. "Oh, she's got several sweet-talking, two-faced men in her works, doesn't she? Wickham may be being chief among them."

" _Wickham_?" Now he's laughing outright. "You wound me, Rilla!"

"You do share a propensity for nicely worded compliments," I point out, feeling quite reasonable. "And, I mean, who else would you claim to be? Surely not _Darcy_?"

"Probably not," concedes Ken, chuckling. "Though your stubbornness would mark you out as a decent Elizabeth."

Cocking my head to the side, I look at him challengingly. "Trying to show me you can do insults as well as compliments, are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," is his reply, as quick as it's obviously insincere. "However, I do think there ought to be a better fit out there for me than Wickham or Darcy. How about… Frederick Wentworth?"

He knows, of course, that _Persuasion_ is my favourite among Austen's work.

"Frederick Wentworth," I declare primly, "stands head and shoulders above you and I will accept no argument on the matter. Instead, won't you tell me where you're taking me for that anniversary date of ours, so I can dress accordingly?"

Ken grins, but accepts my words by slightly inclining his head. "We're not going anywhere fancy, so you don't have to dress up." Then, with a look at my sports bra, "Though you might like to put on a shirt."

"If someone had told me you'd come here today to tell me to put on _more_ clothes…" I mutter, letting the sentence hang unfinished, as I turn towards my wardrobe.

"I promise to assist you in taking them all off later on," comes Ken's cheeky response, but I choose to make a point to ignore it, not even turning to look at him. Behind me, I can hear him laughing quietly.

Not wanting to complicate matters, I simply grab an oversized grey knit pullover to go over my leggings and slip my feet into a pair of well-worn sneakers. My only 'adornment' is my gold circle necklace that I've taken to wearing almost daily. But he said not to dress up, didn't he?

Turning back around, I mean to ask Ken where, exactly, he plans to take me, but I forget the words the moment I see him. He looked perfectly normal before – just like himself – but now, I'm staring at a man with unruly blonde hair beneath a dark baseball cap, wearing a pair of prominent black-rimmed glasses.

For a moment, I just stare. Ken beams at me. "Don't you like my disguise?"

I blink. Then blink again.

"The Red Sox, yes? In New York? Mighty brave of you," I finally declare, raising both eyebrows sceptically at the cap he's wearing.

Ken frowns. "What do you mean?"

He looks genuinely confused and I have to supress a smile. "Nothing, really. Nothing at all."

As expected, this doesn't do anything to clear up his confusion, but when he opens his mouth to ask, I lay a finger against his lips to silence him. (Eric, the boyfriend who preceded Tristan, was a baseball fan and God knows, I've spent enough of my time on the sport back when I was with him – without ever getting the hang of the rules, mind. Either way, I don't intend to start talking about it _now_.)

"Come on. Let's go," I suggest instead, smiling at Ken and nodding towards the door.

Not that he looks convinced, but with a shrug, he drops the subject, instead reaching out to hold open the door for me. Grabbing my bag and jacket, I just mean to leave when, following a sudden impulse, I quickly dart back to the bed, pull off Mrs Lynde's quilt and toss it into a corner. (George, thus dislodged, glowers at me most frightfully.) When I look back at Ken, I can see him grinning knowingly. He's fully aware of my aversion to having that quilt on the bed when there's any _ravishing_ going on.

"Pays to be prepared," I inform him nonchalantly, but make a point to lightly brush against him as I pass.

As we walk down the stairs side by side, I can't help looking over at him every three steps or so. "Where did you get that wig anyway?" I finally ask, eyeing his unfamiliar flaxen hair.

Ken grins widely. "I brought it with me. It is part of my most cunning plan. Do you like it?"

"Very fetching," I deadpan.

"Anything to appeal to you, my most ardently beloved," he declares grandly. It's silly, but it makes me laugh anyway.

"Careful," I warn as I push open the front door. "Continue talking like that and I will be severely disappointed if there's no white steed waiting for us outside."

"No steed, white or otherwise, I'm afraid. But I do have a rather comfortable car for us," answers Ken. Laying a hand on the small of my back, he steers me towards a dark car parked on the curb. It's nothing overly fancy, but looks a bit shinier than the various cars his PPOs used to ferry me around the city last spring.

Speaking of his PPOs, there's no-one in sight, but I know better than to expect them to _not_ be there. And sure enough, after we've gotten into the car and Ken has started driving, two other cars pull up, one getting in front of us, the other one making up the rear.

"Where are we going?" I ask, settling more comfortably into my seat. Casting a hopeful eye over the dashboard, I spy, to my delight, the button to make the seat heat up, and quickly jab at it.

Ken throws me a quick glance as he stops the car at a traffic light. "There's a blanket on the backseat, if you want."

Turning quickly I do indeed see a woollen blanket lying folded on the seat behind me. "What's this about?" I ask, somewhat warily, even as I contort myself to reach backwards. "Because I'll have you know that the times when I could still be persuaded to agree to a make out-session on the backseat of a car are long past."

"Tempting, but no, that's not part of my most cunning plan," replies Ken with a laugh, while getting the car moving again. Then, after a moment of thought, he adds pensively, "I don't think I've ever made out with anyone on the backseat of a car."

"Well, don't add it to your bucket list," I retort drily. "Or else, find yourself a new girlfriend. Because there's a reason I foreswore backseats many years ago."

"Not comfortable?" he teases, to which I only answer with my most frightful grimace, before pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

The car comes to a temporary halt on a busy street and Ken takes the moment to lean over and peck my cheek. "No making out on backseats," he promises, though still clearly amused.

"That's what I said," I remind him, lest he gets it into his head that he's making the rules here. "But I suppose you're still not telling me where we're going?"

"No. You'll have to wait and see," he answers cheerfully.

Pushing my lower lip forward in a pout, I try to get him to talk, but when he just laughs, I grudgingly give in. I suppose I _will_ see it eventually.

After a couple of minutes of driving in comfortable silence, Ken leans forward and fiddles with the buttons of the audio system and a moment later, music fills the car. Chris Rea's 'Road to Hell'.

"Now I'm worried," I observe, raising both eyebrows at him. Looking past him out the window I can see the iconic sight of Brooklyn Bridge to our left, as we cross the East River via the far less remarkable Manhattan Bridge.

"That I'm taking you down a road to hell?" asks Ken with a smile.

"More like, that you already took me down one," I mutter audibly, making him laugh.

Reaching out, he quickly brushes his fingertips over my cheek. "I'd never," he promises and, well, who am I not to trust him?

To the sound of sixties music, we drive onwards, crossing Lower Manhattan and disappearing into Holland Tunnel to reach New Jersey. As we drive through the various satellite towns and municipalities that have amassed around New York City, I tell Ken about college, about what my families and friends are up to and about the usual madness at work. When, after almost an hour, the landscape slowly becomes more rural, houses giving way to trees, he takes up the thread of conversation, talking about his internship with the British government (which, apart from giving him an insight into how parliament and various agencies work, is also set to include some weeks with the intelligence services early next year, which he is quite excited about). Not all of this is news to me, as, I am sure, part of what I tell him isn't unfamiliar to him either, but regardless of how well we keep each other informed via calls and messages, it's just different to, once more, be able to _look_ at him as we talk. (Even if the blonde wig continues to throw me.)

Another twenty or so minutes pass and Ken has just moved on to telling me about the recalcitrant horse his sister is apparently trying to train towards greatness. Dusk is quickly falling, with only our headlights and those of the accompanying two cars cutting swathes of light through the approaching darkness.

"Ken," I interrupt his tale quite suddenly, looking out of the window at the dense forest surrounding the road we're on. "Just so we're sure… you're not using this first anniversary as an excuse to finally dispose of my body in some isolated forest, are you?"

(Because let's be honest, nothing good ever came of entering a spooky forest in any fairy tale that was ever told.)

"Certainly not. I promised you incarceration in The Tower, didn't I?" he replies, chuckling. "And I pride myself in keeping my promises."

"Hmm," I make sceptically. "Just checking, you know?"

"Certainly," he agrees amiably. After a moment, he adds, more sincerely now, "We're almost there. And far from involving your murder, I hope you will like it."

And indeed, just moments later, the car in front of us turns right into what looks like a driveway, with Ken following suit. It takes me a moment to figure it out, but when I see the couple of dozen cars, loosely lined up in rows, all facing a large screen, I finally realise where he took me.

"A drive-in theatre!"

Parking our car in one of the backrows, Ken turns towards me with a questioning smile. "Do you like it?"

"It's brilliant!" I declare, beaming at him.

And it is. It's a most cunning plan, indeed. We could never have gone to a normal cinema for fear of discovery, but here, in our own car, we should be alright.

There's distinct relief in Ken's expression and I make sure to reward his careful planning with a kiss. (Which doesn't qualify as a make out-session on either back or front seat, but is certainly a _proper_ kiss. Kissing him, there's no doubt about it, is also something I've dearly missed.)

When I pull back after a reasonable amount of time, I dimly register one of the PPO's cars having parked in the row behind us, two or three spots to the left. Close enough to be able to intervene, yet far enough to give us the impression of privacy. (I know enough to realise that that's all we're ever going to get.) The other car is nowhere to be seen, probably having stopped at the entrance, or else, prowling around in the general vicinity.

"It's been ages since I've been to a drive-in theatre," I tell Ken happily. "There's one about an hour's drive from Halifax, where Dad took me and Shirley once. I remember that we argued for the entire drive about who would sit in front during the movie. Dad mostly just ignored it, probably because he was of the opinion that we were old enough to work out our differences on our own. My parents, you must know, were big on letting us work it out on our own. Anyway, I pulled the age card on Shirley and he ended up kicking my seat the entire time, in retaliation."

"Fun times," Ken deadpans, making me laugh.

"They were," I insist. "Especially because I got back at him by hiding his stuffed turtle for three days straight. He was maybe eight or nine and the lack of Torty wasn't conducive to his sleep."

Turning his head to look at me, Ken frowns in confusion. "Torty? But a turtle isn't a tortoise."

"So says Jake," I agree. "But when Shirley named the said stuffed turtle at four, he was not yet aware of reptilian nuances. He wasn't _always_ brilliant."

Ken reaches out to rub my knee. I've complained to him about my frightfully clever siblings far too often for him not to understand what I meant by that remark.

"Anyway," I continue brightly, "we also got popcorn and Shirley ate so much that he vomited out of the car window on the way back."

"Karma," points out Ken.

I nod eagerly. "Precisely. And in memory of this event, I shall now get us popcorn as well. Do you want anything else?"

"Just get whatever you like." Saying it, Ken reaches inside his coat and pulls out a wallet that, when he opens it, reveals a collection of plastic cards.

Before he can give me one of them, I reach out to flip it shut again. "I'm a modern woman and I am perfectly able to pay for myself," I inform him. "You paid for tickets – or, you know, made your henchmen pay for them, which is the same thing – so I will pay for snacks. Equality and all that. My Grandma Bertha, as you must know, is big on equality."

"And we wouldn't want to go against the opinions of Grandma Bertha," agrees Ken, smiling.

"Not at all." Leaning forward, I steal the briefest of kisses, before slipping out of the car and making my way over towards the snack booth. As I walk past the PPO's car, I have a sudden idea and, following an impulse, stop to knock against the window on the driver's side.

A moment, but then the window lowers, revealing, to my delight, Hanson.

"Can we help you with anything?" he asks, returning the smile I give him.

"You could tell me which snacks you want," I answer. "My treat."

(I pulled a double shift at work last week. I reckon I can splurge a bit.)

At first, there's surprise registering in his eyes, but then he nods slowly, his smile deepening. Peering past Hanson, I see another man on the passenger seat and a third sitting in the back. I haven't seen either before, and while the one on the passenger side speaks with a distinct English accent, the other one has a Southern drawl that identifies him as one of the American agents that the US government attaches to Ken's security detail whenever he's here.

Having taken their order, I turn towards the snack booth again, but have only taken two or three steps before I hear a car door being shut behind me. Just moments later, Hanson appears by my side. "I thought you might like someone to help you carry all that stuff," he replies to my questioning look.

"That would be appreciated," I agree with a grateful smile.

We take a couple of steps, before I observe, partly to myself, "Quite an operation just to go see a movie."

"I think he wanted to do something special for you," Hanson answers carefully. "He's missed you."

"Really?" I ask. Then, annoyed at the surprise in my voice, I quickly add, more sternly, "I mean, I should hope so!"

"Yes, really," answers Hanson, chuckling quietly. "I can tell. I've been part of his team for a couple of years now and you learn a bit about the people you're watching in such a long time. And he has truly missed you."

"Makes two of us," I sigh. A beat, before I shake off the melancholy feeling already encroaching upon me at the thought of soon having to let Ken go again. Instead, I nod towards the screen and ask, "Do you know which movie they're showing?"

An amused smile appears on Hanson's face as he answers, "Didn't he tell you? It's his idea of a joke, I'd say, though it could also be just coincidence. They're playing _Roman Holiday_. The one with Audrey Hepburn."

Yes, that _would_ be Ken's idea of a joke.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Daydream Believer' (written by John Stewart, released by The Monkees in 1967)._

* * *

 _To wow:_  
 _I was really curious to see people's different reactions to the last chapter, because I thought some would be impatient with Rilla and others would sympathise with her. It seems to have come true, too, which is great! I love it when my characters draw out different reactions, depending on who is sitting on the other side of the screen :)._  
 _To me, personally, both Grandma Bertha and Rilla are right about some parts and wrong about others. Grandma speaks many a true word and offers some sound opinions, but is quite blunt about it. (I also think she's wrong to knock the phone dates, because that's a practical way to keep a long-distance relationship going.) Rilla is acting somewhat stroppily at times, but she's had a lot of people weigh in (unasked) on her relationship, so by now, she's partly just annoyed that no-one can just be happy for her.  
You're certainly right in saying that the impact of her relationship still hasn't fully sunk in yet. She has a better idea of it than she did in the beginning, but the fact that they continue to hide keeps her from evaluating the potential consequences. But the Big Reveal is just around the corner, so she will have to face them soon enough!_  
 _Hippie Cecilia_ is _a lot to deal with. I'm having fun with her, but she's a handful. Also, fairly complex. She tried to live a life she was unsuited to and decided she couldn't do it anymore - but in doing so, left her children. She does have an insight in what it is like to try to change yourself to fit a relationship though, which could become interesting later on.  
You _should _believe me ;). The left hind paw is very sacred! No human has ever successfully touched it before. And whoever tried, had to suffer the consequences. (Sorry. Cat talk.)_


	26. And there's nothing you can do

_New York City, USA  
November 2011_

 **And there's nothing you can do**

At the front of the class, Professor Hale stops talking for a moment to look for something in her bag, and I gratefully drop my pen and flex my aching fingers. The woman talks a mile a minute!

I'm friendless today, because Meghan has been formally excused for reasons that are related to her sport and Chelsea chose a financial-heavy elective over this course on behavioural economics. Thus, I let my gaze drift through the room instead, catching the eye of a girl called Christine (or was it Christina?). I give her a polite half-smile, but she quickly lowers her head and stares into her book. Weird.

Shrugging, I turn to look to my left, where I see two other girls bent over a phone, obviously engaged in a heated, if whispered, discussion. What's betting it's about a man?

Professor Hale, having found what she was looking for, starts talking again and I take up my pen once more, poised to put her words to paper. It's hard work too, copying it all down, so I stay well-occupied for the rest of the lesson. It's only when Professor Hale finally stops and dismisses us until next week, that I can put my pen down again, stretching my arms backwards and rolling my shoulders against the tension.

When I draw my arms forwards again, my gaze once more finds Christina-Christine, who is back to looking at me as well. When she sees me noticing, she blushes and turns away. Which is _really_ weird, because I don't think we ever spoke more than three sentences.

Some people are just strange, I guess.

Stuffing my notes into my bag, I fish out my phone instead. I shoulder the bag and start walking, pressing a button to make the phone come alive.

 _4 missed calls_

Huh?

They're all from Ken. And there's a message, too.

 _Call me as soon as you see this. -K_

Talk about weird.

Leaving the room, I quickly make my way along the hall, until I reach a smaller side corridor where I might have some semblance of privacy. I just mean to call Ken back, when the phone rings of its own accord. My fingers hurry to accept, so much so that it's only after I've taken the call that I realise this is in fact Jem, not Ken calling.

"Hey there," greets Jem as I raise the phone to my ear.

"Hey Jem," I reply quickly. "Look, it's nice of you to call, but I'm kind of busy right now, so could we just chat later?"

I'm all poised to cut the call, expecting Jem to agree easily (because, let's be honest, Jem has never called me about anything vital before), but instead, he hesitates. "Uh… this is kind of important. I'm not sure it can wait."

Taking a deep breath, I try to squash my irritation. "Make it quick, yes?"

"Sure," he answers, but then doesn't say anything else. Pushing the straps of my bag higher up my shoulders, I sigh impatiently, not much caring that Jem can certainly hear it.

It does seem to propel him to speak at the very least. "Um, look, Faith has this colleague. Her name's Leigh. They're working on the same ward."

And this concerns me _how_?

"Jem, I'm sure this is all absolutely riveting, but couldn't we talk about it some other time?" I interject, hoping that I might get him to stop.

He, however, is having none of it. "No, please," he calls out hurriedly. "I'm… this is heading somewhere, I promise."

Could have fooled me.

(It's weird, too. Jem isn't usually this…confused. On the contrary, actually. Normally, he gets straight to the point, even in situations where he should have held back.)

He waits for a moment, but when I don't reply, Jem finally continues, "Right. So, Leigh knows that Faith and I are together. She knows my name as well. I mean, she would. We're all three of us working in the same hospital after all."

I roll my eyes at no-one in particular and press my lips together to keep from saying something that might be taken to sound unkind.

"Faith and Leigh just had a short coffee break a couple of minutes ago," Jem adds, "and that's when she showed it to her. On her phone, I mean. She recognised the name, right? So, you know, I am just wondering whether it's correct."

Whether _what_ is correct?

Breathing deeply, I clamour for patience. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh, about what's on the internet," is his answer, which doesn't really answer anything at all.

(Seriously, everyone seems to be acting out of sorts today. Has the entire world gone mad?)

"If there's stuff about Faith on the internet, why don't you go and ask her instead of bothering me?" I suggest, trying to infuse my voice with the pretence of helpfulness.

"Ah, well…" begins Jem and clears his throat, but then trails off without volunteering any more information.

I'm just about to tell him that I'm going to hang up, no matter what he says, when there's a kerfuffle on the other end of the line.

"You're making a mess of this, Jem," comes Faith's faint voice. "Here, let me do the talking."

A rustle as he hands over the phone to her and a second later, it's Faith I'm speaking to.

"Rilla?" she asks. "Are you still there?"

"Yes. _Still_ ," I retort, a _sliver_ annoyed, but I should have known that this wouldn't deter Faith, as it did, indeed, not deter Jem. They've got that in common.

At least I have more hope of Faith getting to the point of this. And yes – she very much does. "There's an article on the internet. About you. They say you're dating Prince Ken. They've got pictures of you and everything. Your full name, too."

And just like that, I feel as if the floor has been ripped from under me.

Reaching blindly behind me, I lean against the wall for support. My heart is beating at top speed and my breath is coming out too fast. I might be hyperventilating.

"Rilla?" Faith's voice again, sounding concerned. "Say something."

But when I try to speak, there's just a strangled sound coming out.

Because suddenly, it all makes sense. Christina-Christine being unwilling to look at me. Those other two girls debating something on the phone. Ken phoning repeatedly and insisting I call back immediately. Jem stuttering such nonsense.

They all knew. And in truth, they didn't act weird at all.

The world might still be about to go mad though.

"Rilla?" Jem again. His voice sounds a little off, making me realise that one of them must have put me on speakerphone.

"Yes?" I croak back.

A beat. "Is it… um, true?"

"Uh-huh," I manage. There's much more I want to say, so _much_ , but I seem to be unable to get my voice under control. At least my breath comes out a little slower.

There's a moment of silence as they process it. "Wow," Faith finally breathes. "That's crazy."

Tell me about it.

"Any particular reason you didn't tell anyone?" wonders Jem. He doesn't say it accusingly, which, in some distant part of my brain, makes me feel relieved.

Clearing my throat, I find that my voice is cooperating again, though it sounds curiously hollow. "I told some people. I meant to tell you as well, but…"

But I didn't want any more people weighing in on my oh so complicated relationship. Plain and simple. Between Mum and Grandma Bertha and assorted sisters, I got quite sick of everyone having an opinion – and not being shy about voicing it either. I mean, I was all set to gather my brothers together and tell them, back when we were in Ingleside in August, but then I just… didn't.

"I meant to tell you over Christmas," I add as an afterthought. (It's true, too. I did totally mean to do that.) "Walter and Shirley, too."

"So, I'm not the only one out of the loop," Jem deduces.

"And even if you had been, you'd have gotten over it," Faith declares decidedly. "She doesn't _have_ to tell you anything, okay?"

"Okay, okay," mutters Jem. I'm absolutely sure he's rolling his eyes and reasonably sure that he's grinning at the same time.

Faith clucks her tongue. "Good. Now, Rilla – what are you going to do?"

Good question.

What _am_ I going to do?

"I… Well…" I stutter. "I just meant to call him, actually. Before you called me."

"Sounds reasonable," decrees Faith. "But you must tell us when there's anything we can do. Right, Jem?"

A rustle, as she no doubt either prods or elbows him into action, before Jem hurriedly assures, "Sure, yeah. Anything we can do to help,"

"Thanks," I murmur, meaning it. I don't _think_ there's anything they can do, but I appreciate the offer.

"Just one thing before you hang up," Jem quickly adds. "What do we do if someone asks us about it?"

How am _I_ supposed to know?

"We'll pretend ignorance, of course," declares Faith matter-of-factly. "And we'll do it until there's some form of protocol in place."

Yes. Yes, that sounds very sensible.

Jem makes a grumbling sound. "So, if someone with a TV camera asks me, I just have to pretend to know nothing? These could be my five minutes of fame you're depriving me of, Faith!"

I blink. I mean… I'm sure glad _someone_ is able to joke about this?

Faith heaves a long-suffering sound. "You'll live," she decides. "And now we'll let Rilla go so she can figure out how to deal with this. Alright, Rilla?"

Nothing about this is alright. In fact, it's probably as far from alright as it could possibly be. And yet, I nod slightly, never mind that they can't see it. "Alright," I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.

Cutting the call, I let my head drop against the wall behind me, closing my eyes and trying to process what I just heard. I know it's enormous – it _feels_ enormous – but it's also… surreal. Like, why would anyone be interested in putting pictures of me on the internet? And why would people want to look at them?

Something, I know, has irrevocably changed. It's just that I have no idea what that _means_ and it scares me.

With a sigh, I open my eyes again – and look directly at Brian Kovac.

He's standing maybe a meter away from me, watching me with what can only be called an unsure expression.

"Brian," I greet him wearily.

"Hello," he replies quickly.

I wait for him to continue and say whatever he's got to say, but he falls silent, merely standing there and moving his weight from one foot to the other. He looks utterly uncomfortable.

"Yes? Can I help you with anything?" I finally prompt. I don't have time for this.

"Actually… I just talked to Harriet and she says that there's something on the internet about you. They're saying…" Brian trails off, blinking rapidly.

Sweet Jesus, how big _is_ this thing?

"Harriet appears to be right," I answer resignedly. (Harriet is the girlfriend he acquired sometime last spring, after I gently told him to go looking for one somewhere else, because I wasn't auditioning for the role and never would be. She's a year or two below us and seems to be rather sweet.)

Brian nods, lacing his finger together and unlacing them again. "And what –," he begins.

I don't let him finish though. "Look, Brian," I interrupt, "I appreciate your… concern, or whatever this is, but I _really_ don't want to talk about it, so… could we just not?"

He swallows visibly. "Of course. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's just…" Once more, he does not finish his sentence.

"Just what, Brian?" Between him and Jem, my patience is worn thin and I'm afraid it shows in the tone of my voice.

Brian takes a careful step back, but still doesn't leave. "Ah, it's just… there are reporters out in front of the building. I think, well… they are probably looking for you. I wanted to let you know."

 _Reporters?_

 _Here?_

But… why? _How_?

There's a peculiar feeling rising within me that I belatedly recognise as panic. Because if there are reporters camping out there that means I am… trapped.

My breath, I realise distractedly, is coming out in shallow gasps. The hand still clutching the phone has started to shake.

"Rilla?" asks Brian. He looks almost fearful now.

I couldn't have answered, even if there had been anything I wanted to say.

Brian, however, quickly continues talking. "I don't know if you know it, but I'm working for Professor Grey this semester. I have a key to the staff entrance in the back. When I checked some minutes ago, there was no-one waiting there. I could show you the way?"

Not trusting my voice, I merely nod, but within me, I feel a wave of gratefulness towards Brian. Awkward, bumbling Brian Kovac. Who knew he was also kind?

With a weird little smile, Brian waves for me to follow him. I keep my head down and walk after him as he leads me along several corridors, thankfully running into just a smattering of people. When Brian finally holds open a door for me, the street behind it is, indeed, deserted.

I breathe a silent sigh of relief. "Thanks, Brian. I owe you."

"Not at all," he hurries to assure me. Then, after an awkward second of silence, "What are you going to do now?"

"Go home," I shrug. "Call K- I mean, make some calls."

Brian shifts his weight uneasily. "Is it… I mean, is it a good idea to go home? If they know that you study here and know your name, wouldn't they also know…"

Where I live.

Of course.

A shiver runs through my body and I wrap my arms around myself. I feel cold and it's got nothing to do with the sub-zero temperatures we've been enjoying for some days now.

"Yeah," I mutter through a constricted throat. "Probably. I'll find somewhere else to go then."

For a moment, I think he's going to ask where I intend to go, but he swallows the question. Instead, he holds out a hand for me to shake. "Good luck."

Chances are, I'll need it.

Having taken my leave of Brian, I quickly start walking along the street, turning to look behind me at intervals. Thankfully, there's no-one there, but even so, I don't even stop when I ring Ken, just pressing the phone to my ear as I walk.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

Forced to a halt by the red little guy on the traffic light, I slowly lower the phone again. Around me, the city hustles and bustles, back to its normal self after the nasty winter storm we had some days ago, but I suddenly feel strangely… lost. I can't go back. I can't go home. There's nowhere I can go, except for –

 _Joy!_

Of course! Joy and Dan's place isn't far from here. I have a key. It's perfect!

With new-found vigour, I start walking again, stepping over unseasonal snow mounts, dodging around people on the sidewalk and generally trusting in the fact that the busy-ness of New York will be enough to hide me yet. I mean, not _all_ of these people follow weird gossip sites on the internet, do they?

It's just a ten minute walk from university to Joy's place and today, it's even quicker. Turning into her street, I reach into my bag for my keys. It takes me a moment to locate them and I come to a halt, the better to search the bag. When my fingertips finally find metal, I pull them out triumphantly, raise my head – and that's when I see them.

There's two of them. Two men, standing on the other side of the street, looking supremely bored. Two men holding cameras. The professional kind, that are big enough to smash somebody's head in.

After a moment of panic, I quickly walk backwards around the corner, praying to whatever deity still looks favourably upon me that they did not see me. That I might remain undetected yet.

In my hurry to get away, I almost stumble over my own feet, only just managing to maintain my balance. An elderly man stops to look at me, asking if I'm alright, but I ignore him. I just want to get _away_.

But where to? My head's a jumble, but I know there's no place I can go. If they found Joy's home, who knows where else they're liable to turn up? These men with their cameras who are trying to grab a piece of my life _without ever asking my permission_!

Blindly, I hurry onwards, not knowing or caring where I'm going. It's not like it matters anyway. I'm out here on my own and _where's_ Ken when I need him?

Once more, I try his phone. It rings, but no-one picks up.

And so, I keep walking. Just onwards, head bowed, not looking at anything but my feet. All around me, life continues as normal, when in fact, nothing is normal anymore. It feels… all wrong. Like some kind of nightmare that I can't seem to wake up from. I never knew what people meant by an 'out of body-experience', but now I suppose this is what it feels like. Just because a part of my brain knows that this is true, all of it, doesn't mean it _feels_ real. Because surely, this can't be happening? Not to _me_?

My phone, still tightly clutched in my hand, rings and beeps intermittently, an array of family and friends trying to reach me, but I don't pick up. I am, desperately, waiting for Ken to call back, hoping against hope that he might be able to put this right again.

(What, I wonder, are my chances that this is all just a big misunderstanding?)

I have no idea how long I've walked when his name finally pops up on my screen. I stopped feeling my feet a while ago, but I reckon that if I could still feel them, they'd be burning.

"Rilla? Thank God," breathes Ken when I pick up.

"I tried to call you! For ages! You didn't pick up!" I accuse, my voice cracking. "You didn't pick up!"

"Sorry. Crisis meeting," he replies, sounding somewhat distracted. "Look, Rilla, I –"

"There are reporters!" I interrupt him. "At college. Outside Joy's flat. Probably outside mine as well. They don't get to be outside my apartment! It's my home. They have no _right_! They have no right to do this!"

In some distant part of my brain, it registers that I'm crying.

"Rilla. Rilla, love, breathe. Just breathe for a moment, alright?" He's trying to soothe me, I know. But I don't want to be soothed. I don't want to breathe either. I want this to go away and I want to go home.

Not waiting for a reply, Ken continues, "Can you tell me where you are?"

Where I am? Slowly, I raise my head and look around. At first glance, there's nothing to help me identify my location, but as my gaze follows the street into the distance, I see some greenery not too far off.

"Near Central Park. I think." Have I really walked this far?

"Good. That's good," answers Ken.

I want to ask what's good about this, because I have no business being here, but before I can form my thoughts into coherent sentences, he's already talking again. "Melissa is booking you a room at The Plaza. Go there. Stay there."

Who is Melissa?

"Rilla? Can you do that?" There's concern in his voice, I notice. I don't know what to do about it though.

"I think so," I hiccup. When I wipe a hand over my face, my fingers come away covered in black mascara smudges.

"Good. Great. Look, I must hang up now, but I will call you back when I can. Someone from my office might be in touch before that, but don't talk to anyone else, alright?" Ken asks. "And let your family know not to talk to anyone either. Your friends, too. The press will sniff them out. Best if no-one says anything at all, even if it's well-meant. It just gives them ammunition they can spin to suit their purpose."

Ammunition? But this isn't a war!

Or _is_ it?

"Ken?" My voice is strangely small. "Can you make this stop? Make it go away?"

For a long moment, there's just silence on his end, before he sighs heavily. "I can't. No-one can. Not anymore," he answers wearily.

Because now, they know my name.

A sob escapes my throat as fresh tears run down my already heated face. (I must look a right mess.)

"Rilla, sweetheart… God, I'm sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry. I love you. I'm sorry this is happening to you." He sounds stricken and I know he's sincere. But it doesn't change anything, does it? Him being sorry, even him loving me… it doesn't change a thing.

He's as powerless as I am.

How I manage to find my way to The Plaza in my state, I will never know, but when I stumble into the lobby, it's an oasis of calm. Warmth, too. I've never been here and normally, I'd stop to marvel, but nothing is normal right now. And yet, if the young man at the lobby thinks that there's anything out of the ordinary with me, he doesn't show it. Instead, he produces my booking – whoever Melissa is, she did as promised – and acts quite as if messy women with splotched faces stumbling into the hotel were an everyday occurrence. So, too, does the other young man accompanying me upstairs, his face never once betraying any kind of surprise – or disgust – at my state.

When I step into my room and close the door behind me, I feel as exhausted as I've ever been, even though it's only just past noon.

The room itself is an inoffensive mixture of whites and golds and beiges, the furniture being vaguely French in what might be the style of Louis quinze or Louis quatorze or whichever Louis preferred these fancy type of chairs.

I don't think I've ever felt as out of place anywhere as I do here. (I want to go _home_!)

It's eerily silent in the room. I'm so far up that even the street noise is just a faint buzzing in the distance. And suddenly, I have to suppress the urge to call back the bellhop (do they still call them that?) with some request or another, just because I can't stand the silence.

Not that I do it, of course. Instead, I slowly walk over to the King-sized bed at the other end of the room and, after a moment's hesitation, gingerly sit down on the edge of it. Letting my bag slide from my shoulder, I drop it by my feet, the sound barely registering on the thick carpet.

Through it all, I have kept my phone in my hand. What I'm waiting for, I don't quite know, but when it rings and Dad's work number shows up, I realise that I don't have the strength to talk to any of them. I don't have the strength for all those questions I have no answers to.

After some seconds, the ringing stops and Dad's call joins the ranks of all those other calls I didn't answer today. It wasn't his first, either, as I notice when I slowly start scrolling through the list. They all called, with varying frequency, Mum the most often.

There are texts, too, from my family, my friends and even people I didn't even know had my number. Some are disbelieving, many are curious and the messages from those close to me are, increasingly, worried. What stands out from the melee is a text from Shirley, informing me that he took the liberty to set all my social media accounts to private and that he hopes I don't mind. (I _should_. Mind, I mean. He can't just hack all my accounts, even if it's well-meant. He's crossing about eight different boundaries, doing that. But the thing is, I'm too tired to mind. And I guess I'm just relieved not to have to take care of it on top of everything else.)

Remembering what Ken said, I slowly compose a message to tell that I'm alright, that I will be in touch and please not to speak to anyone and send it to all those who I think might truly care. To my parents and Joy, I send an additional text to inform them where I am and promising to call soon. (Though how soon that will be, I can't really tell.)

Having sent all my messages, I stare at the home screen of my phone for several long seconds. Then, I watch as my fingers, of their own accord, open the browser and type my name into the search bar. (Shirley always chides me about using google because of how much data they collect. I have no idea why I'm remembering this just now.)

I've googled myself before, of course. It's just never it never turned up anything interesting. Just my Facebook page, some ancient report about a school play I was in and a years-old results list of a local 'best turned out pony' competition in which I won a white ribbon. So far, so utterly normal.

Now though, the first entry has been replaced by a link to the website of some magazine or another. When I click on it gingerly, it loads a site with a picture of me, just walking along the street. They must have photographed me when I went home from the Subway one day. And I never noticed a thing.

Above the photo, the headline screams at me in bold letters.

 _Ken's Cinderilla – Does the royal shoe fit?_

I swallow heavily. I'm feeling faintly sick.

Cinderilla was our joke. The one that goes all the way back to when we first met. They don't get to take that as well, do they? They _shouldn't_ be allowed to take it as well!

With a frustrated sigh, I fling the phone on the bedside table and I let myself drop backwards, into the downy pillows. Staring at the ceiling, I try to arrange my thoughts into something resembling order, but it's no use. It's all jumbled. Nothing is as it's supposed to be anymore.

There's no answer written on the ceiling either and I let my eyes drop shut. If I just fall asleep now, couldn't some benevolent power intervene so that I might wake up in my own bed tomorrow and everything will be back to how it was?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Road to Hell' (written by Chris Rea, released by him in 1989)._

* * *

 _To Aoggfan:_  
 _Rilla certainly seconds you about missing Ken ;). He should be making appearances, even if just remotely by phone or chat, in most of the upcoming chapters though. He might not always be adorable about it, but... well, it would be boring if it was_ always _adorable, right?_

 _To AnneShirley:  
_ _I wouldn't over-interpret the inclusion of_ Roman Holiday _:)_ _. If Ken orchestrated the showing of it (and it's not even certain that he did), he meant it as a light-hearted joke, not as a form of subliminal messaging. In fact, if there was any foreshadowing in the last chapter, it was the song they listened to, much more than the movie they saw. I mean, not that's it's_ all _hellish, but some of what the press is going to throw at Rilla from now on might, at times, make it appear like she's stuck in her personal form of hell.  
Rilla's studying definitely has shades of the green hat! She'll never be academic or overly interested in her studies, but she's just stubborn and tenacious enough that it should pull her through. Plus, it distracts her from the lack of Ken in her immediate surroundings, which, as you said, makes her life feel off kilter in a way it's not supposed to.  
Shirley and his Torty wrote themselves in there of their own accord ;). But even Shirley wasn't always brilliant, as Rilla helpfully points out, and he was never overtly interested in flora or fauna to begin with. That was Carl's metier in their youth (and, let's be honest, still is). So while Jake would definitely be disappointed, we might be so kind as to overlook this gap in four-year-old Shirley's knowledge. (And in case you wondered whether the hiding of the favourite stuffed animal was a move I pulled on my sister back in the day... yes, I totally did that. With gusto.)  
I'll see what I can do about lyric requests :). And have fun with Audrey!  
_


	27. You can have this heart to break

_New York City, USA  
November 2011_

 **You can have this heart to break**

Of course, I don't sleep a wink for the longest of times.

Partly, that's probably because it's still the middle of the day, even though it _feels_ like this day has already gone on for far too long. The bigger part, however, is because my mind is far too jumbled to settle down for something as banal as sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I get flashes of the photographers standing outside Joy's flat or the picture of me on the internet, so in the end, I don't close them anymore. Instead, I just lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking up ever more creative bargaining tools, in hope that some higher power might yet be swayed and make this go away.

No such luck.

Instead, sometime during the afternoon, the hotel phone rings, and when I cautiously pick up, it's the mysterious Melissa on the other end of the line, introducing herself as "junior assistant to the private secretary of the Prince of Wales". It makes my head swim.

She's clearly the chipper type, Melissa is, though she does her best to sound suitably solemn. She even offers some semi-helpful advice about not speaking to anyone I don't share at least a quarter of my genes with, and about setting my social media to private and deleting all pictures that could, potentially, be of interest to anyone digging for dirt. (Shirley already did that, it seems. At least he wrote to tell me that he took down a couple of photos, but that he'd saved them just in case I wanted them back. When all of this is over, I really need to talk to him about boundaries.)

When I ask to speak to Ken, Melissa apologises profusely, but remains adamant that that's currently not possible. When, in turn, she politely but un-subtly starts sniffing around, trying to get me to name people who could potentially talk to the press about me, I cut her off, claiming tiredness. The last thing I need is to be _handled_ by Ken's people. And besides, if information is what they're after, maybe they shouldn't have put the task to the second secretary of the personal assistant, or whatever.

Not that I'm actually tired, of course. Nor is sleep any closer than it was before. So, after another ten minutes staring at the ceiling, I pick up my phone (which is already working overtime as it is) and make the calls I probably should have made hours ago.

Mum lets me rage and cry without once saying "I told you so". Dad is understanding and kind and just the right amount of worried. Joy is already elbow-deep in trying to find out in which court we can sue the lot of them for publishing photos of me without my permission. (In the background, Dan sounds doubtful that such an endeavour could turn out successful, and junior secretary Melissa also advised against any legal steps. She said it would only make them mad at me and that's surely the last thing I want?)

When I put the phone down again after having talked to all three, I feel a little better than before. I'm still shut here in this hotel room, with no idea when it'll be safe enough for me to venture outside again (or, really, what needs to happen for it to be safe enough), but I'm not utterly alone. They might be far away, or otherwise unreachable, but it's a comfort to know that despite the world having spun off its axis, my family remains the same.

It even gives me the strength to work through some of my texts. A lot of them, I just ignore. To concerned and incredulous missives from close friends, I answer by backing up my earlier request not to speak to anyone and promise more information when I have them. A worried Nan, I assure that I'm warm and dry and fed (or, potentially fed – I do suppose The Plaza does room service, should I feel like I could stomach food again?). To Di, enquiring what I intend to do now, I answer that we're working on a strategy, which sounds more in control that I feel and which I reckon she isn't buying for a second.

My brothers, too, have been in touch. Jem, to message 'man, this is crazy!' and Shirley, to ask how attached I am to those pictures from my spring break in Mexico during first year (and to advise that I'd better not let Grandmother Marilla ever see me in that particular bikini, which he probably has a point about). He's also suspiciously cool about all of this, so much so that I can't help asking. Seconds later, a reply pings back to explain that he did some digging after locating me in Ken's apartment all the way back in spring and figured as much. (We _really_ need to speak about boundaries. Privacy, too, come to think of it.)

From Walter, there's a carefully worded little message, expressing surprise and concern and hoping that I am doing alright. When I read it, I can't help sighing. Out of all my brothers, Walter was always the one most likely to be hurt by my silence. Shirley, by the sound of it, considers this entire situation a hacking challenge mastered. Jem wouldn't know a grudge if it bit him on the nose. Walter, however…

Measuring my own words with care, I answer to assure that I'm fine, to apologise for being secretive and to promise that we will speak about all of this soon. Then, feeling suddenly drained of energy again, I toss the phone on the nightstand. The battery is about to give out anyway.

But after having actually talked to people, the silence in the room feels suddenly oppressive, so I do what I always do when I need sound to fill the air and turn on the TV. It's set to some very respectable news channel or another and, not caring particularly _what_ the voices are speaking about, I keep it that way.

Occupy Wall Street, Julian Assange, fighting in Syria, debts in Europe, floods in Thailand, continued power outages all over the Eastern US.

Nothing to make your own problems appear insignificant like five minutes of watching the news, right?

Dispassionately, I watch as the political reports give way to the entertainment section, presented by a very blonde woman in a questionable orange top. Apparently, Lindsay Lohan is going to prison _again_ , which should surprise just about no-one. Such a pity, too. Some of her old films were quite, well, _fetch_.

In less juicy news, a French man won a French prize for his French novel about French warfare, or something. It sounds like Grandma Bertha might enjoy it.

Yawning, I just consider turning off the TV and trying for sleep again – when suddenly, a jolt goes through me and I sit up straighter.

Because that's my own face staring back at me from the screen.

For several long seconds, I just stare at my apparition, not even registering what the woman in her ghastly orange top is saying. Because surely, that can't be right? Surely, gossipy sites on the internet are one thing, but this is quite another? Surely no respectable news channel would ever think me important enough to report about. Surely this must be a _mistake_?

As if in slow motion, I watch my hand raise the remote and switch the TV off. Were I a character in a Hollywood movie, I would now throw the remote across the room, right at the screen, but I am not, so I don't.

I'm just me. And this, this is… too much.

Burrowing my face in the pillow, I pull the thick eiderdown over my head, curl myself into a foetal position and proceed not to move at all. Childish, perhaps, but then, nothing I can do has any chance of solving this mess anyway, so I might as well not even try.

And despite everything, I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I wake up, it's night-time.

For a moment or two, I stare blearily into the darkness, trying to figure out where I am, why I am here and what on earth that pounding noise is. It all comes rushing back just when I realise that the noise is someone knocking on the door. Loudly.

Crawling from the bed, I pad over to the door, but don't dare open it. They said not to speak to anyone, didn't they?

Instead, I tentatively ask "yes?" through the closed door, my hand still hovering undecided over the doorknob.

"Rilla? It's me. Open up, please."

 _Ken?_

Fumbling with the lock, it takes me a moment to get the door opened, but when I do, it's indeed Ken on the other side. He looks absolutely knackered. He's pale, with dark shadows under his eyes and yesterday's stubble on his cheeks. His hair is all rumpled, too, as are his clothes.

Still, I might never have been happier to see him than I am now.

Stepping backwards, I let him into the room. He makes sure that the door is securely locked, before turning and, wordlessly, holding his arms out to me. I curl myself into his embrace, my hands clutching at his pullover.

"What are you doing here?" I murmur against his shoulder.

He laughs, humourlessly. "You didn't seriously think I was going to leave you alone with this mess, were you?"

I thought that, yes. I thought he was busy.

"I would have come sooner, but I had to let people be disappointed in me first. That took a while," Ken adds, his arms tightening around me.

"Why disappointed?" I ask cautiously, angling my face so I can look at him in the dark.

He sighs heavily. "For allowing it to get this far. My father has been pressing for a controlled reveal for a while now. Rightly, too. I just thought we still had time, so I put it off and… now it's too late."

"A controlled reveal?" I repeat, frowning. I'm not sure what he's talking about.

"Nothing official, Heaven forbid! Just a hint dropped to a sympathetic reporter in exchange for a friendly portrayal. That way, we would have kept momentum," Ken explains. "As it is, we can only react. And our press people just _love_ being blindsided." That last of which is said with dripping sarcasm.

"I suppose they also don't love you being here right now?" I ask slowly.

Ken shrugs, a curt movement. "Depends on who you ask. Some think it's best that I get to you before you go renegade. The others think I should have stayed in London and let some underling deal with you."

Because, once again, I'm the liability in this. The problem they're all paid to solve.

"How did you manage to get here this quick?" I wonder. The digital clock on the nightstand says it's just a little shy of midnight and that's not all that much time to cross the Atlantic.

"I called in a favour. It's always quicker with a private plane. And, me being who I am, I get preferential treatment at customs as well," explains Ken, matter-of-factly. "I tried to call, but your phone is switched off and the landline to the room is engaged."

I twist my mouth into a wry smile. "My battery died a while ago and I took the receiver off the phone to block the line." What I don't say is that I did it to prevent another enquiring phone call from under-assistant Melissa. Instead, I remark, "You must be exhausted."

"It's been a long day," Ken admits, sounding weary. "But more importantly, how are you?" He leans backwards slightly, his hands coming up to frame my face, as he studies me in the gloom.

"I don't know," I sigh. "It's surreal. Part of me still thinks I'll wake up tomorrow and it'll all have been a bad dream. I know it's not, but…"

But I would like it to be. Very much so.

Ken shakes his head slightly, his arms slipping to wrap around my waist again. "I'm sorry this is happening the way it is. I should have… handled this better. Prepared _you_ better. I fooled myself into thinking that we could fly under the radar a bit longer, but that's no excuse. I messed up."

Standing up on my tiptoes for a moment, I kiss his cheek. His stubble is rough against my lips. "How did they find out?"

"Who knows?" His voice sounds heavy. "I put Emmett to the task, but we might never know. Could be that someone talked. Could be that someone saw me fly into New York either last month or in September and then started to dig. Could be that our trip to the movies didn't go as unnoticed as we thought it did. There's a number of ways this could have come out."

"But that was two weeks ago," I point out. "Why would they only reveal it now?"

"They covered their bases. Made sure they had a real story on their hands. You can accuse them of a lot, but not of failing to do their research," he explains flatly.

Letting me go, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a tube-shaped something that, when I finally switch on the light, reveals itself to be a rolled-up magazine of the glossy kind. Holding it out for me to take, Ken adds, "This is the print version to go with that online teaser. Officially, it's only out tomorrow, but Arlene threatened someone to get an advance copy."

From the cover, my own face is staring back at me – again! –, with a smaller picture of Ken at the side. The headline is an attention-grabbing hot pink.

 _The Royal Mitzi – Prince Ken's Barbie is Canadian!_

"What is a Mitzi?" I ask, puzzled. (The bigger part of my brain is still trying to process the fact that someone put _me_ on the cover of a magazine. It defies reason!)

"A Canadian doll. Originally meant to rival Barbie, but discontinued after a short time, decades ago," answers Ken. "Or so I have been told."

I blink. "So, they don't even need me to be called Barbara to do the Barbie puns."

"They _never_ need a reason to do the Barbie puns," sighs Ken, pushing a hand through his hair.

Turning the magazine in my hands, I ask, undecided, "Should I read this?"

"Your decision. It's not earth-shattering. Broadly accurate, but without too many details. They give some general facts about you, but nothing worrying. It's mostly sympathetic, if a little condescending," replies Ken. "What they do have, however, is a picture of you with your niece that I think your sister might like to sue about."

Yes, I bet she will.

Ken rubs his hands over his face. He's clearly as tired as I feel.

"Do you want to sleep?" I reach out to weave our hands together. "There's still a small chance that it might just be a nightmare after all."

I mean to lighten the mood somewhat, but Ken barely raises a smile. Instead, he pulls me over to the bed, sitting down heavily at the edge of it and making me sit next to him. Curling a leg beneath me, I watch him alertly from the side.

"I would _love_ to just go to sleep," Ken answers, raising a hand to lightly brush it against my face. "But first, we have to talk about some things. It's our only way to gain back some agency."

Things?

What kind of things?

As if having heard my silent questions, Ken continues talking, "First of all, I need to know whether you told anyone I don't know about yet."

I shake my head. "No, Grandma Bertha was the last one I told. I meant to talk to my brothers but… yeah. In the end, I didn't. Jem and Shirley appear fine with it, but Walter seems to be a bit put out at me keeping secrets from him."

"He will understand. With a job like his, he knows about the importance of secrets," Ken replies distractedly.

Frowning, I incline my head to the side. "What do you mean?"

But Ken just waves the question aside tiredly. "Not my place. Ask him sometime."

Which answers just about nothing.

I don't get a chance to press though, because Ken is already talking again. "We also need a list of anyone who might have something unfavourable to say about you to the press. Doesn't even have to be anything major. If there's an old classmate out there willing to gripe into the next microphone about how you didn't invite her to your fifteenth birthday party, chances are that someone will pay for that 'exclusive'. Maybe not right away, but certainly once the more interesting information dries up."

Staring at him, I take a deep breath. Then another. Ken, noticing this, turns his head to give me a wry smile. "Sorry. I know it's a pain, but we don't want to be blind-sided again. We can't protect you from what we don't know about and I need to give my communications people _something_ to work with."

Right.

His communications people.

"They also need a list of the men you dated before me," he adds and at least has the decency to look uncomfortable about it.

Three times, I open and close my mouth, not getting out a word.

Ken raises his hands in defence. "Look, I know it's a lot to ask. But the press will definitely sniff them out and will just be delighted to plaster your relationship history all over their front pages. They aren't known to be gentle about it either. That's why we need to get to those exes first and ideally convince them to keep mum."

I press my lips together. It sounds reasonable and I hate that it does. Because this isn't anyone's business but mine. Not the press's, not his communication people's and, really, not even Ken's.

Still, when he offers me a pen and paper, I reluctantly accept and start writing.

 _Carl Meredith_

 _Alain de la Bruyère_

 _Jorge_

 _Eric Reese_

 _?_

 _Tristan Fairfax_

"I'm supposing you don't want the name of every guy I ever went on a failed date with?" I ask, somewhat snippily, when I hand over the slip of paper to Ken.

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the names. "Can you tell me more about them?"

I don't really want to.

I do it anyway.

"I told you about Tristan," I begin, pointing to the last name. "He's my friend Seraphina's cousin. Old family. Mayflower connection, I think. He studied at Yale, by virtue of his father's wallet. I met him when Seraphina took us to their Hampton house the summer after first year. We dated for about a year. He's a nice guy. Funny. A bit goofy. He lacks any kind of backbone though. When his mother decided that I _wouldn't do_ , he backed away. Didn't even have the guts to break up with me properly. He just didn't call back so stubbornly that eventually, I ended it. By text."

Skipping up the list all the way to the top, I put my finger on Carl's name next. "Carl and his family live close to our holiday home on PEI. We were best friends all throughout childhood and when we started growing up, everyone commented on what a cute couple we would make. I think that we both got told it often enough that we just ending up… going with it. I truly loved him. In fact, I still do. But I was never _in_ love with him, though I didn't know that then. When we broke up after graduation, I was more scared of having lost a friend than actually heartbroken. We went back to being friends though, thankfully."

With one look at Alain's name, I quickly skip past it and move downwards again. "Eric, I met when he was interning at the law firm Joy works for. I dated him for a good chunk of my first year in New York. He's the exact opposite of Tristan. Hard-working, clever. No money or connection to prop him up. Still, the perfect boyfriend in many ways. But he was already close to graduating and I was only starting out and when he began talking about moving in together and marriage and children, I… I got scared. I baulked. I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment."

"Which gets me to him." My finger taps against the question mark on the list. "My Coyote Ugly moment. I told you. Happened during spring break down in Mexico. I couldn't tell you his name any more than I could tell you how I ended up in his bed. I ran the minute I woke up and never saw him again. Not my best moment. Maybe my worst. I like to think it wouldn't have happened had I been sober, but that's no excuse. It was awful of me. I did tell Eric and it reliably put paid to that relationship. He was kind about it, too, which made it even more horrible."

I dare a short glance in Ken's direction to gauge what he thinks about what was, very certainly, me cheating on my boyfriend with some drunk stranger. His face though, betrays no emotion.

Which leaves me with no excuse to not tackle the most painful part of this.

"Alain…" I begin slowly. "Alain, I was in love with. As fiercely as it was ill-advised. I met him when visiting Paris during my year in Europe. He was… I idolised him. Joy was wary even then, but I thought I had the perfect romance. I went to visit him in Paris almost every weekend and floated on cloud nine during the rest of the week. Until one day I decided to go surprise him and Joy proved to be right. I'll spare you the details, but it turned out that he never saw us as exclusive, or really going anywhere. Just a bit of fun, you know?" I stop to take a breath. "I never broke my heart over any of the others, but Alain certainly did a thorough job of shattering it."

When I look at Ken, I can see a muscle twitch at his jaw. His gaze is fixed on the paper.

Not getting a proper response from him, I turn towards the last name. "I moped around for weeks. Poor Joy put up with it for a while, until she finally snapped and decided I was to take up travelling again. I spent two miserable weekends dragging my feet around Copenhagen and Graz, but the third weekend brought me to Lisbon and to Jorge. He chatted me up at the station and offered me a ride to my hostel on his scooter and, well… I never did end up going to that hostel. Instead, I spent the weekend with him. He showed me the city during the day and we spent the evening with friends of his and… you know. It was just two days, but he made me laugh again after the Alain fiasco. On Sunday, he took me back to the station and I never heard from him again."

Turning towards Ken, I find that, strangely, it is this last reveal that finally draws a reaction from him. "You just went home with a stranger in a foreign country?" There's a deep frown etched between his brows and his voice sounds… almost disapproving.

Still, the last thing I want is to fight, so I take a deep breath and try for calm. "It was fine. I mean, I suppose it was a bit reckless, but it turned out fine. Jorge was lovely and he really helped me take that first step towards getting over Alain."

"But you do realise that that was probably his MO? Pick up young female tourists at the station and take them home to –" He breaks off, moving his hand to the side abruptly.

"So what?" I ask with a shrug, trying to keep my annoyance out of my voice. "We both knew it was never going to extend past that one weekend. He never promised me anything but a good time and I didn't want anything else from him. We were both on the same page about it. Even if he did it with others… where's the harm?"

"Where's the harm?" repeats Ken, incredulous. "Do you really need me to explain that to you?"

It's meant as a rhetorical question, but I take a moment to think over my answer anyway, watching him as I do. He looks all tense. High-strung. Impossibly tired.

But that just makes two of us. It's no excuse.

"No, I'm not interested in your explanation," I reply, intoning my words carefully. "In fact, what I really need is for you to leave."

Abruptly, he raises his head. "What…?"

I cut across him. "No. I'm not listening to this. You don't get to come here, make me talk about things I don't want to talk about, only to start _judging_ me. It doesn't work that way."

"Rilla…" He reaches out a hand towards me, but I draw back, getting up from the bed.

"I'm not discussing this right now. We're both tired. It's been a long day, it's no use." A beat. "Can you get a room here?"

He nods curtly, pressing his lips together.

"Good. Go there. Sleep. We can speak tomorrow." I have no idea where my sudden firmness is coming from, but it might just be because I'm _done_ with it all. I just don't have any patience left.

For a long moment, Ken looks at me, but whatever he sees seems to dissuade him from arguing. He gets up from the bed and it's only when he's at the door that he pauses again, looking like he might speak.

"Tomorrow," I remind him.

A moment, before he sighs, nods, turns to leave the room.

I remain sitting on the bed, staring at the door, and wait for something, _anything_ to happen. But not even tears will come. It's like I'm all out of feelings. Out of strength to feel them, anyway.

Instead, I just sit there. And I sit there still when, after half an hour or even more, there's yet another knock. A second later, I can see something being pushed in under the door. Then, the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall.

Slowly, I get up from the bed and walk over to the door. Two envelopes lie on the carpet. Both have Ken's writing on them.

 _I'm sorry_ , says the first.

 _I'm really sorry_ , says the second.

When I gingerly open the first envelope, small pieces of paper flutter out of it and land on the carpet. It takes me a moment to realise that it's the list I made, ripped to shreds.

The second envelope contains another list. This one is intact, and its written in Ken's hand.

It's a list of women's names. Longer than mine, but shorter than those gossip rags would like to have their readers believe. I recognise some of them, either because they got reported as his girlfriends or because they're known in their own right, be it through acting or modelling or It-girling. Several have hyphenated last names, some titles to boot. There's even a Scandinavian princess on there.

This is him evening the scales, I realise.

And I know that I could go over to his room and ask him to tell me about every last woman on the list. And, someday, I will. But for now, it's raw enough as it is. Nothing to be gained by picking at fresh scabs.

Instead, I rummage in my bag for my charger, connect my phone and wait for a few seconds before I can switch it on again. It immediately starts beeping, even more calls and messages from this evening, but I don't take any notice of them yet. Selecting Ken's number, I start typing.

 _It's alright. I'm not mad. Not very, anyway. I think I want to be on my own tonight though._

His reply comes so fast that he must have been sitting right next to the phone.

 _I understand. I'm sorry. For all of it. I love you._

And for a moment, my fingers hover above the phone, but then I type it anyway.

 _I love you, too._

Because let us be honest – if I didn't love him, I would already be running. Fast.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'And So it Goes' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989)._

* * *

 _To wow:_  
 _Yup, Ken messed up. Both in the last chapter and in this one. No-one knew Rilla was being tailed by paparazzi, so he had no advance knowledge that this would drop when it did, but regardless, he definitely should have prepared her better. That he didn't was a mistake and it's entirely on him._  
 _And in comparison, Brian suddenly seems like the hero, doesn't he? ;) Awkward and bumbling, but he's the most heroic one in that chapter for sure! Though Shirley also acts sensibly, so we can award kudos to him as well._  
 _You might be pleased to know that Gilbert isn't harassed at work, nor is anyone else but Rilla. She is where the story is, and while the reporters will find her family, they're all on her trail for the time being. Her family is just calling to check whether she's alright, not because they themselves are hunted by paparazzi._  
 _Your comment also made me think some more about what Rilla owes her family. It's an interesting thought experiment. Does she owe it to Jem, to whom she isn't all that close, to tell him details about her love life when Jem never would have (and never did) tell her the same about his? Does she owe it to Anne or Bertha to act like they want her to, even though_ _she didn't really ask for their advice in the first place? I actually don't think she does, to be honest. She listens to them, she talks to them, she makes sure they don't have to worry about her too much (she texts her family immediately when she has a quiet moment and calls her parents and Joy within three hours of learning about the reveal) - but she is still her own person and makes her own decisions. I don't think she is obligated to take their opinions on board or act the way they expect her to, even if, objectively speaking, they might be right. She has a right to make her own mistakes, doesn't she? I mean, I appreciate that some might see this differently and I truly respect that, but in my opinion, at this point, I don't think she owes her family much more than she already gives them._


	28. Get my feet back on the ground

_New York City, USA  
November 2011_

 **Get my feet back on the ground**

"Rilla! Look here!"

"How did you meet the prince?"

"Give us a smile, Rilla!"

"Are you moving to England?"

"This way, Rilla. Look this way!"

I don't look _this way_. In fact, I make sure not to look anywhere at all and most especially not at the cameras clicking all around me. Instead, I keep my head slightly lowered, my gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance and my features schooled into the pleasantly neutral expression I spent an hour practicing in front of the mirror yesterday.

Turns out it's surprisingly hard to just walk down the street, looking completely uncontroversial. I'm quite grateful Ken talked me through it beforehand.

He was really very nice the morning after our squabble. Apologetic, too. He messaged to ask whether I'd see him now and when I consented, came bearing breakfast and some basic hygienic articles that were, by this point, much appreciated. (I would also have loved a change of clothing, but you can't have everything.)

We did talk about the list over breakfast and agreed that I'd speak to Carl and ask Seraphina to speak to Tristan, that we'd trust in Eric's integrity and take our chances with the other three. Partly, too, because I have no way of finding either Jorge or Coyote Ugly Guy and no desire to find Alain.

With that out of the way, he gave me a crash course in how to walk down the street in front of a gaggle of photographers, which felt weird at the time but is much appreciated now that I actually have to do it. The afternoon, we spent curled up on the bed in my hotel room, at one point transitioning into the kind of slow, lazy lovemaking that is more exemplary of a Saturday morning spend in bed, but that might also have been the first time either of us relaxed after the frenzy of the previous day.

He had to leave in the evening, to catch the red eye back to London and entrusted me into the hands of Hanson to take me home safely.

Our stay at the Plaza had, surprisingly, remained undiscovered, but a good number of photographers had convened outside my place, despite night and cold and wet. When I ducked out of the car, jacket pulled over my head to keep dry, the cameras flashed, but they don't seem to have gotten any picture that showed more than a shadowy figure dashing past. Which is why they camped outside my apartment building all weekend and are so eager to try again today.

I already ran the gauntlet earlier this morning outside my flat, and here, in front of the economics building, I'm doing it again. I can't tell whether these are the same photographers, who were just quicker in crossing the city than I was, or whether it's a new set. Either way, it seems like all the paparazzi on earth have suddenly descended on New York.

Which is strange in so many ways. I mean, it's not like I'm doing anything _interesting_ , is it?

(George, by the way, hates the paparazzi with a vengeance. He stuck close to the flat throughout the entire weekend and when he dared venture outside by my side this morning, he hissed at them most spectacularly.)

In my peripheral field of vision, the cameras flash, with the sound of clicking ringing in my ears. Still, I don't look their way. One of the things Ken was most anxious about is that I can't be seen to be courting attention. I laughed and told him I didn't intend to start posing and waving, but apparently, "courting attention" starts at such mundane things like looking too happy.

I can't look directly at a camera, for fear of it appearing deliberate. I can't be caught smiling or even looking too friendly, for fear of it appearing like I'm in cahoots with the photogs. On the other hand, I can't ever be caught looking annoyed or angry either, because apparently, they'd have a field day with _that_ as well.

Like I said, it can be surprisingly hard to just walk down a street.

Most especially, because there's a hysterical laugh lodged in my throat, at the sheer _absurdity_ of it all. These are photographers. Taking pictures of _me_. To sell them to magazines. For _money_. So that people can _look_ at them.

Why on earth would strangers want to look at a picture of me?

I'm not especially interesting to look at, am I? I mean, I made sure to braid my hair extra carefully this morning and used the weekend holed up inside The Shoebox to not only practice my pleasantly neutral expression, but also to curate a very nice and very uncontroversial outfit with the help of Di and Skype. But still. There must be more interesting things going on in the world, surely?

One of the bolder photographers jumps in my way to get a better shot and I quickly turn my head to the side. Can't be seen to look directly into a camera, after all. (Besides, it might give them a good shot at my hair and convince them it is a nice, inoffensive auburn, not "flaming red" as reported. Though what I can expect from journalist claiming my roots lie in Toronto, I really don't know.)

Truth is, this is exhausting. Absurd, but exhausting.

Thankfully, I have almost reached the doors of the economics buildings, causing the clicking to reach another crescendo. They can't follow me in here and apparently, they know it. Thank God. (Or rather, NYU's security measures, I suppose.)

Inside the building, I let go of a breath I had been holding and feel my shoulders slacken as I do so. That went… I hope that went alright. I hope I did well.

When I raise my head to look at my surroundings again, I find that even in here, people are looking at me. Mostly fellow students, shuffling along the halls, some staring outright, some throwing quick glances my way. Which… I guess it makes sense, what with the commotion out there, but…

"Excuse me?"

Startled, I turn around. Two girls stand in front of me. Two girls I don't think I have ever seen before.

"Yes?" I ask cautiously. I have no idea what they could want.

"Are you really dating Prince Ken?" blurts out the blonde one immediately, looking at me with shining eyes.

I take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see another group of people stopping to listen.

The dark-haired girl elbows her friend in the side. "Sh!" she says. Then, louder, to me, "You're Rilla, right?"

It's strange. That everyone and their grandma's parrot sitter suddenly knows my name.

"Yes," I answer slowly. I feel tempted to ask for their names and do so _pointedly_ , but I don't dare. Not before I know what they want.

"Great," beams the dark-haired girl. "Can we take a selfie? My friends at home don't believe that I'm really studying with you."

 _Is_ she studying with me? My mind still wonders, even as my feet already take a step back. The girl is undeterred. Smiling hopefully, she holds up a turquoise phone for me to see.

This wasn't part of Ken's crash course, but then, it didn't need to be. If being photographed while looking too friendly is already seen as "courting attention", there's no way that a selfie _isn't_.

Still. A quick look tells me that we're suddenly surrounded by people, watching the exchange curiously. Some of them, I see, have phones out themselves. The girls are still smiling widely at me.

And I want nothing but to run.

The photographers, I knew to expect. It's weird, it's absurd, it's all wrong, but I _knew_ they'd be there. This here… I was supposed to have been alright in here. No-one said I had to be on my guard around my fellow students as well. No-one said it wouldn't _stop_!

In the fraction of a second, my mind is going through all possible options. I can't take that selfie. That goes without saying. But I can't decline it either, because there are phones out, possibly filming me, and it will look stroppy and petty to deny. If courting attention is bad, looking stroppy and petty might be worse.

The dark-haired girl cocks her head to the side. The blonde girl's smile turns questioning.

From behind, a hand reaches out to lay on my shoulder.

My first impulse is to throw it off, but I am too painfully aware of the phones directed at me to do anything. I am utterly frozen.

"She'd love to," announces a familiar voice, "but she has classes to go to."

"As," chimes in another voice brightly, "I am sure you do, too. So, shoo!"

The two girls' faces fall in exactly the same second. I give them a half-hearted smile that might be constructed to be apologetic, before turning away from them – turning away from the phones – to face Nia and Seraphina.

I'm sure I've never loved them more than I do in this very moment.

I also want to say about ten things at once, from asking what they're doing here (neither of them takes economics, after all) to apologising for lying to them, but I can't seem to get even one of them out. Instead, Seraphina throws an arm around my shoulders, replacing Nia's hand, and cheerfully declares, "Come on, let's get you to class."

"Yes," adds Nia with one last look at the group of people that is slowly dissolving. "Let's."

Her arm still draped over my shoulders, Seraphina steers me away from the crowd of people, with Nia taking up the rear.

"Is there anywhere we can talk privately?" Seraphina asks conspiratorially after we've taken some steps, leaning closer to me as she speaks.

"There's a little used ladies room up on third floor," I answer slowly.

"Excellent." Seraphina beams. "Let's hope there's no Moaning Myrtle around."

That actually gets a laugh from me. "No, I don't think so."

"Well, lead the way." This, she says accompanied by an elaborate movement of her free arm.

As we walk through the building, I am painfully aware of people stopping to look at me, but with my friends at my side, no-one else dares approach. Thus, we quickly reach the third floor, where I point out the ladies room in question to Seraphina.

It is almost empty, with just one girl checking her make-up in the mirror. Seraphina quickly ushers me past her, over to the windows, while Nia takes up position next to the door. As we silently wait for the girl by the mirror to be done beautifying herself, I risk a short glance out the window. It overlooks the front of the building, so I get a good look at the photographers down on the street. Some seem to be packing up, but others look like they've settled in, no doubt waiting for me to come out again.

"This is crazy," whispers Seraphina, peering over my shoulder.

It sure is.

(I had to explain the photographer's presence in front of our apartment house to Mrs Weisz over coffee on Saturday. Not wanting to give Ken away fully, I settled for "he's somewhat famous". When Mrs Weisz, pondering, asked whether he was "like one of those Hollywood actors", I answered with a vague "something like that". She considered it for a long second, before declaring that she's glad he has a job after all, and swiftly moved on to speak about her latest novel. I love Mrs Weisz.)

Turning from the window, I can just see the girl by the mirror slip her eyeliner into her bag. She throws us a confused look, but leaves the bathroom without another word. Nia immediately closes the door behind her and wedges a mop from the cleaning cabinet beneath the handle.

The moment the door is secured, Seraphina grabs me by the shoulders and turns me towards her. "So, it's true? You're _really_ dating him?"

Her eye gleams excitedly and with almost every other person, I'd chalk that up to her looking for gossip, but with Seraphina, I know that she is excited _for_ me.

Moving a few steps away from the window (involuntarily dragging Seraphina with me as I do), I try to think of the best way to explain, but in the end, only come up with the very plain truth. "Yes. I am."

Seraphina squeals. Loudly. "Oh, my God! This is so exciting. You must tell us _everything_!"

The use of the plural makes me turn my head to look at Nia, still hovering by the door. She's being awfully quiet, isn't she?

But Seraphina isn't finished. Giving my shoulders a shake to reclaim my attention, she asks, "Is it, like, serious? The two of you. You are not just hooking up?"

"I love him. He loves me. I'd say it's pretty serious," I reply, smiling at her excitement. She might be the only person so far who is just _happy_ for me, instead of dredging up potential problems at every turn.

Letting go of my shoulders, Seraphina covers her mouth with both hands. "Wow," she mutters through her fingers. For a moment, I think I have rendered her speechless, but then she lowers her hands again and the old exuberance is back. "I have no face for a hat, but I do look quite dishy in the right kind of fascinator," she announces.

I frown at her.

A fascinator? Aren't those the ridiculous curly-wurly contraptions the English wear perched on the side of their heads when they attend…

Oh.

"Maybe not that kind of serious," I remark quickly.

For a moment, Seraphina's face falls in disappointment, but she recovers quickly enough. "Well, no reason why it couldn't happen in the future. It's early days still, isn't it?" Her voice is bright once more.

I try to come up with a good answer, but Nia beats me to it. "That's what _you_ think, but we have no idea how long this has been going on," she points out flatly. "Rilla here wasn't big on sharing in the past."

Seraphina frowns. I duck my head.

She's right, Nia is. I know she is. I just hoped she wouldn't mind.

"Nia…" I begin slowly. "Look, it was complicated. Telling, I mean. It was also so… intense. Confusing, too. I didn't mean to leave you out. It… It just seemed easier to keep it to myself at the time."

"To keep lying," corrects Nia, mercilessly. Seraphina clucks her tongue in Nia's direction, obviously disapproving, but otherwise keeps out of it. I have a feeling they already had this talk between themselves.

Sighing, I take a few steps towards Nia, so that I end up between the two of them. "It's not that I don't trust you," I explain, my voice imploring. "But Ken always put such an emphasis on secrecy that I… it seemed natural, to keep it quiet. And I guess, I also liked the thought that I could just be… my old self around my friends. Not the girl who is suddenly dating the prince."

"That sounds logical," chimes in Seraphina quickly. "Doesn't it, Nia?"

Nia makes an indecipherable sound. "Perhaps." She doesn't appear convinced. "How long _has_ this been going on then?"

"Oh, well," I stutter, "For a while, I guess. But –" I don't get any further.

" _A while_?" echoes Nia, cutting me off. "And that is supposedly you trusting us, right?"

That stops me short. She is… she is right, I think? I didn't mean to give them the entire story, not even now. A media-ready version of it, maybe, but not the whole truth. Because apparently, I can't even relax around my friends anymore. (To hell with Ken and his paranoia!)

My gaze moves past Seraphina, who raises her shoulders in an apologetic half-shrug. Nia watches me with her head cocked to the side and her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"You're right," I concede, taking a deep breath. "That wasn't very honest either. But how about this? I met him last year at a party. In October. We didn't become a couple until shortly before Christmas though."

"Over a year," breathes Seraphina, clearly impressed. But I look at Nia. Her stance relaxes slightly, but she keeps her arms crossed.

So, I continue. "Actually, you met him. At that Halloween party last year? He was dressed as Batman."

Seraphina groans. "That was _him_?" she wails.

Nia considers me through narrowed eyes for a moment or two longer, before dropping her arms and allowing herself to show something that might, with goodwill, be called a smile. "And I asked you whether you were calling dibs on him," she remarks, drily and maybe the slightest bit incredulously.

"I wasn't. Not then, anyway," I quickly explain.

But Nia just laughs it off. "You _so_ were! It was bloody impossible to miss."

And once again, she is right. I _was_ calling dibs on him, even then.

I give Nia a lop-sided smile and can see her shoulders drop as she returns it. I can't really blame her for having felt left out. Still, I'm very grateful to be forgiven this quickly.

Seraphina, meanwhile, has evidently used the moment to mull something over. "If you're a couple since last year, that means… The party at the University Club… He _was_ smiling at you after all!"

"He, ah… Yes, he was," I reply, feeling a little sheepish.

"And I didn't figure it out. I _should_ have figured it out!" She looks genuinely put out at her failure to put two and seventeen together.

"It's a reach," points out Nia. "It's not something you can just deduce. I mean, it sounds too crazy to be true, doesn't it?"

Yes. It does.

Thankfully, Seraphina has already moved on to a new train of thought. "Oh, Yseult is going to flip out!" she declares happily. Then, her face turning pensive, she adds, "Though I also seem to remember you disappearing for a while in the middle of the party. Did you meet up with _him_?"

She looks at me with bright eyes, and I can do nothing but nod in confirmation, turning my eyes upwards and smiling wryly.

Seraphina leans closer to me. "Did you, you know… hook up? At the party?"

I draw in a sharp breath. "Seraphina! No! We didn't do anything. I mean, I was gone for barely ten minutes!"

"So, the take home-message of this is that the prince knows when to take his time," interjects Nia drily. Seraphina laughs brightly. I let go of a puff of air, pointedly exasperated with the both of them. (Not that it has any effect, naturally.)

I am saved from having to reply by my phone starting to ring. Fishing it out of my bag, I cast a quick look at the caller ID and yes. Speak of the devil.

"Is that him?" whispers Seraphina, sounding breathless.

I nod and pass the phone from one hand to the other, unsure what to do.

"Well?" encourages Nia and nods towards the still ringing phone. Which settles it one way or another.

Accepting the call, I raise the phone to my ear. "Yes?"

"Hello love," comes Ken's voice. "How are you? Did everything go okay this morning?"

"I'm fine," I assure quickly, acutely aware of my friends watching me. "I think it went well. Do they already have pictures up?"

"Emmett says they do," confirms Ken. "Nothing newsworthy though. Just you walking down a street. _People_ has an article coming out, about our – and I quote – 'Big Apple fairy tale', but it's basically just a re-write of stuff already reported on. They got some additional info on your family, but nothing beyond names and professions."

I nod slowly, though he can't see that. I guess this is not too bad. I mean, half my family is on LinkedIn anyway. (Which might be where they got the information in the first place, now that I think about it.)

"When do your classes start?" asks Ken, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"In a couple of minutes." A beat. "I am talking to Seraphina and Nia at the moment."

That seems to pique Ken's interest. "Your friends?" he asks. Then, "Can you put me on speakerphone?"

Well… I guess so?

I do as he asks and hold my phone out to the two of them. When Ken speaks, I can see Seraphina's eyes widen excitedly. Nia just raises an eyebrow, but I have a sneaking suspicion she isn't as unmoved as she pretends to be.

"Good morning, Seraphina," greets Ken. "May I call you Seraphina?"

"Yes," squeaks Seraphina and I can see Nia suppress a grin.

"I don't know if you remember, but we met last spring," Ken continues. "You wore a galaxy-inspired dress."

Oh, he's _smooth_.

Nia rolls her eyes and I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing, but Seraphina gasps. "He remembers me," she blurts out, a second before she clamps both hands over her mouth, looking mortified.

Ken laughs quietly. "And why wouldn't I? It was lovely to meet you."

(I'd say he was laying it on a bit thick, but Seraphina seems to lap it up, so maybe he's on to something there.)

"And Nia, of course," he adds. "The one who's going to protect our planet by making nuclear energy safe to use."

Nia is, once more, rolling her eyes at him, but her lips are twitching upwards and I can see she's secretly pleased. "I'm working on it," she agrees, though making sure to sound as unimpressed as possible.

"And you two are looking out for Rilla while I can't, aren't you?" Ken asks after a second.

"I'm grown up. I can look after myself," I protest immediately. The last thing I need is for him to go all protective!

"I'm sure you can," he placates. "But it's always easier when you have people around you who have your back."

Hmm… can't argue with that.

"We already are looking out for her," Seraphina tells him eagerly.

"Yes," mutters Nia. "And we would have done it long before, if she hadn't kept us totally in the dark."

Seraphina whirls around to glower at her, but Ken, as usual, is on top of it. "That was my fault, I'm afraid. I infected Rilla with my paranoia. I bet I made her see conspiracies behind every corner. Isn't that right, love?"

"Yes. Your fault entirely," I agree cheerfully.

Ken chuckles. "As usual, of course. Anyway, it was nice speaking to you, Nia and Seraphina. I am looking forward to being introduced to you when next I'm stateside." A second passes as they, now in unison, gape at the phone and I try my best not to laugh.

"Ril?" Ken adds, the cadence of his voice changing slightly, letting me know that he wants me to take him off speakerphone again.

"Yes?" I ask, after having quickly done so.

"I'm glad you have your friends around," he remarks quietly. "But if anything is the matter, you will call me, alright? And if you can't reach me, call Melissa. She can put you through."

Melissa, Personal Secretary to the Second Assistant or whatever, has apparently been designated my contact among Ken's staff. I have her number saved and everything. Ken explained why he chose her, saying that he thought we might get along, but that I'd much rather give away my entire collection of cute shoes than actually contact her, goes without saying, of course.

"Sure," I assure anyway.

"Good. And don't forget, those photographers are not allowed to harass you in any way," Ken reminds. "We can't stop them from taking pictures, but that doesn't give them the right to scare or distress you in any way. Should that be the case –"

"I will call you. Or Melissa," I finish, making sure to sound a little petulant and pulling a funny face in direction of my friends. We've been over this and more than just once.

Over the line, I can hear Ken laugh softly. "Right. You know this. I just want you to take care."

"I am," I promise. "Taking care, I mean."

"Good," he answers. "Have a lovely day. We'll talk later. Love you."

"Love you, too," I reply, turning my face away from my friends as I say it.

After I have hung up, I take a second before looking at them again. They are both staring, though Nia is still trying to act all cool.

Not so Seraphina. "Wow," she murmurs, breathless. "This is really for real, isn't it?"

"It is," I confirm, not doing much to conceal my own enthusiastic grin. "And what's more, I will tell you everything you want to know about it. Who's up for a slumber party?"

Nia perks up at the mention of this. "Like old times?"

"Almost." I give an apologetic shrug. "Me leaving my apartment is quite an… operation these days, as you might have noticed. It might be easier if you came by my place for once."

"No problem," assures Nia and Seraphina nods quickly to back her up.

"Great," I smile and take a step towards the door. "Because I have classes to get to now and I believe that you might have to be somewhere as well?" (I mean, there's no doubt that they conspired to corner me here today to squeeze information out of me. They have no other reason to be here. Still, I'm not even mad.)

My arm looped through Nia's and a chatting Seraphina on my other side, we make our way out of the ladies room, down the stairs, towards the classroom I have my next course in. And there, waiting in the corridor by the door, are Chelsea and Megan, the latter waving as she sees me.

"You're on the internet," she announced loudly, thrusting her phone in our direction.

Uh-huh. And what else is new?

Leaning forward, I catch a look at a small photo of myself, obviously taken just this morning. Seraphina, too, casts a glance at the phone screen. "Well, at least you look cute," she declares, and who am I to argue with that?

Nia gives me a parting pat on the back, but it's only when Chelsea holds out a hand for me to take, that I suddenly realise that they've planned this. They don't usually overlap, these two pairs of friends, but we've all gone clubbing together before on the occasion, so they're no strangers. And this, here, is clearly a most cunning plan to keep me in company on what could have been a trying day.

Except that it isn't. Because the outside world might be going mad, but I have my friends to rely on. And, after the madness of the past few days, that realisation fills me with a curious sense of calm.

As Ken said, they have my back. I am not facing this on my own.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Help!' (written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1965)._

* * *

 ** _Important A/N:  
To anyone who hasn't yet, you absolutely need to check out OriginalMcFishie's story "Royal Correspondent". She and others are doing what I can't do (not well, anyway) and writing the other side of this story: namely, reactions from both press and public (articles, tweets...). It's not only a great honour for me, but also a most amazing addition to this story. It's fun and delightful and you want to follow it. Trust me on this._**

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _The novel in question is "L'Art français de la guerre" by Alexis Jenni. I have not read it, nor heard anything about it past the fact that it won the Prix Goncourt in November 2011.  
You raise an interesting point about how the lack of the Diana spectacle changes this royal family and their relationship to the press. I'm thinking Leslie is/was similarly popular and gets photographed as often whenever she ventures outside, but she herself is naturally wary of the press and besides, she lives firmly within the protective boundaries of the palace walls, so there was never as much access to her as to Diana. And in a way, Rilla is this family's Kate. The first serious commoner girlfriend to a heir to the throne. So, any lessons the real royal family learned from the treatment of Kate, _this _royal family still has to learn. They aren't going into this with their eyes closed, but they lack a certain amount of experience when it comes to dealing with that kind of attention. (And they have no 'memory of Diana' to invoke to put pressure on the press either, meaning they can't use that strategy either.)  
Nevertheless, Ken could have done better and didn't. He should have prepared Rilla properly, he should have managed the reveal better and he should have refrained from getting all judgemental about her previous love life. No excuses for him, I agree.  
We'll get to Walter in time. You're certainly right to say that Rilla doesn't hero worship him here as she does in the books. (Which, frankly, has always annoyed me.) And his job does draw heavily on his knowledge of the Russian language and culture - but we'll leave it at that for the time being ;). (Ken's stint with the British intelligence services is planned for early 2012, so he hasn't begun that yet.)_  
 _Lisbon is gorgeous, isn't it? When it comes to the Iberian peninsula, people usually tend to favour Barcelona, but I liked Lisbon best. In fact, I am one of the rare people who prefer Madrid to Barcelona as well, but Lisbon trumped them all. (I just went back to look through photos of it and it was a nice little trip down memory lane, so thanks for that.)_

 _To Guest:_  
 _Oh, not to worry. I'm fairly confident Rilla has met more than seven men in her life._


	29. If they were right, I'd agree

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
December 2011_

 **If they were right, I'd agree**

"So, a prince, yes?"

I look up at Carl, who's standing next to the pew, and roll my eyes at him. "Yes, a prince. So?"

(I feel it's rather a witty way to turn his words back around at him, but I have a feeling it's going to go straight over his head.)

"Nothing much," Carl answers with a shrug.

(Yes, it totally did.)

He takes a step back to allow me to slide out of the pew, but stays by my side when I start walking towards the church doors. It's obviously a little more than just "nothing" after all.

I throw him a sideways glance. "What _is_ it, Carl?"

He avoids looking at me and for a moment, I'm not sure whether he will answer, but then he bursts out, "They _hunt_!"

Huh?

"Who does?" I ask, hoping that I sound more patient than I feel.

"The royals. They hunt!" He's looking at me now, quite accusingly. (Really, from his look, you'd be forgiven for thinking I was the one who supplied them with guns.)

I raise both hands to fend of his accusation. "Look, I mean… I guess so?"

Carl frowns. " _I guess so?_ " he mimics. "That's all you've got to say on the matter?"

Uh, let me think about that for a moment… "Yes."

Now, in addition to accusing, his look is also disapproving. "But these are innocent creatures. Gentle birds, just minding their own business, shot out of the sky for the amusement of some toffs!"

Okay. I _really_ don't have the strength for this.

"And what would you have me do about it, Carl?" I enquire, feeling weary.

"I don't know." He's animated now, moving his hands as he talks. "You've got an in with them now, don't you?"

Never mind strength. I also lack the _patience_ to deal with this right now.

"If by 'having an in with them' you mean that I'm sleeping with one of them then yes, that's correct," I confirm sarcastically as we come to a halt.

It's more honesty than Carl apparently expected, for it does the trick of shutting him up. Instead, Nan turns around to comment mildly, "You do realise we are in a church?"

"He started it," I grumble, pointing my thumb at Carl and drawing laughs from both Nan and Jerry.

"What are we waiting for anyway?" I ask quickly, before Carl has time to recover, and nod towards the church doors. Most of the other attendants have already left, but our two families have piled up in front of the doors, with no-one making any attempt to open them.

"My father and Una," answers Jerry. "They shouldn't be long."

Right. Una got her Masters of Divinity in summer and officially assisted her father during today's Christmas service. She's doing some form of temporary placement in – I _think_ – Greater Sudbury and expects to do several more of those before getting her own congregation in two or three years. After which she will be needed there for Christmas service, of course. It might well be one of the last times we have Una here with us on PEI at Christmas Day.

(Bit odd then, that Cecilia Meredith and Fire Lily have stayed in their commune for the holidays. But then, Una always seems pointedly unconcerned about her mother's whereabouts and I'm not voluntarily entering _that_ particular mess anyway.)

They're nowhere to be seen yet, the Reverends Meredith, and the delay seems to have been long enough for Carl to get his speech back. "Now, about the hunting –," he begins.

Jerry cuts him off. "Carl, please."

Carl's head whips around. "Please _what_?"

"Please can you refrain from bothering people?" elaborates Jerry, sounding tired. "Rilla doesn't want to hear it."

No. Rilla doesn't.

"Oh?" Carl narrows his eyes. "You think she'd much rather hear about how you make money from buying shares of oil companies?"

Actually, no. She doesn't want to hear about that either.

"Boys," interjects Nan weakly. "We're in a church." She looks at me for help, but I can do nothing but shrug. This is bigger than her or me.

Jerry raises an eyebrow. "That's a gross oversimplification of the matter."

"Of course you'd say that!" accuses Carl. "But Kara told me –"

But we never do learn what Kara told him, for in that moment, Reverend Meredith and Una emerge, causing a ripple of motion to go through our group. Faith, closest to the exit, reaches out to open the doors, takes a step forward – and immediately recoils, throwing the doors shut forcefully.

The sound rings loudly through the church, as we all stare at her.

"Faith?" asks Jem carefully and reaches out to lay a hand on her arm.

Faith blinks at him, looking stunned. "There are reporters out there."

A second passes, before they all turn to me as one.

Just bloody great.

(It's not even that I'm surprised, exactly. Ken warned me they might turn up. I just hoped they wouldn't.)

Feeling that I should be saying something, I offer up a weak, "sorry?" and duck my head slightly.

The moment stretches out, into three seconds, then five. Finally, it's Dad, lightly shaking his head, who asks, "How many reporters, Faith?"

"Many. Probably half a dozen," reports Faith, looking between Dad, the closed door and me.

Part of me wants to tell her that half a dozen reporters isn't a lot. It's par for the course, really. But Joy is the only one who has any idea quite how many reporters I have following me around on a bad day and there seems little to be gained from telling the others, except for upsetting some of them.

"What do we do now?" asks Nan and that seems to be the cue for everyone to spring into action.

"We need to get Rilla out of here, of course," Grandma Bertha announces decidedly.

"Unseen," adds Di with a firm nod.

"There's a back entrance through the sacristy," offers Rosemary Meredith.

"I could run ahead and get the car," suggests Dan.

"Good idea," commends Mum.

"Shouldn't we get two cars?" asks Jem. "That way, they won't know which one she's in."

"Could be a plan," muses Grandpa John.

And I stand there, listening to them strategizing and sigh softly. They're trying, but they really have _no_ idea.

"No," I say loudly, cutting across their developing plan to throw a blanket over my head to smuggle me outside.

A beat, as everyone goes back to looking at me.

"No blanket?" asks Shirley ironically, raising his eyebrows slightly to signal that he's thought this a ridiculous idea from the beginning.

"Nothing of this," I explain, searching for words. "Look, it's… I appreciate the concern, but there's really no need."

That seems to surprise them, because it is, once again, followed by silence.

Finally, it's Una who asks cautiously, "Do you really just want to go out there and have them photograph you?"

I nod, wearily. "It's just the easiest way. If I give them what they want, they'll leave. If I start playing games, they'll play, too." I'm not doing a good job explaining this, I feel, but I don't know how to make them see. "I've tried to evade them, believe me. I've tried running. It's no use. It's easier just to let them take their picture and get this over as quickly and painlessly as possible."

Di eyes me dubiously. "Well… if you say so." She sounds less than convinced.

"She's right," confirms Joy. "I've seen it and… she's right."

(Out of all of them, Joy's the only one who gets this, I think. Maybe Shirley, too. It might have broken about four boundaries when he hacked into my social media accounts last month, but I'm not fooling myself – it was the single most helpful thing he could have done in that moment and yes, I appreciate the outcome, if perhaps not his methods.)

"If you want to, you can all wait in here. I'll just show myself outside, let them take their picture and hope that they'll be satisfied," I offer, my hand already rising to smooth out my hair.

"We're going with you," decides Dad, not hesitating for a second, and I feel grateful for it.

I mean, I'm not fooling myself. I am the story and I am the one they'll train their lenses on. But even so, it will be easier to face them as part of a group than on my own.

"How do we do this?" enquires Walter, nodding towards the church doors.

"Act naturally," I advise, drumming the tips of my fingers together, "and try not to look at them. Talk among yourself, but not so loud they can hear you. At best, it'll look like we don't even know they're there."

"Do you want us to look like we're having fun?" asks Faith, her hand already hovering above the door knob again.

I frown, thinking this over. "A reasonable amount of fun. Pleasant, but not riotous."

"We can do that," confirms Faith easily, her free hand sliding into Jem's as she pushes open the doors for the second time.

From where I'm standing, I can't see the photographers, but the clicking of their cameras is a familiar sound. Silently, I watch as the others slowly file out of the church, most of them looking away from the cameras so resolutely that there's nothing natural about it. But I know they're trying.

Nan takes Jerry's arm and they slip into position behind me, closely followed by Grandpa and Shirley. Engulfing me into the group, I realise, as best as they can. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Carl still beside me and send a quiet prayer to the heavens that he won't start talking about hunting again. Not even because it's somewhat annoying, but because the reporters will have a field day with that, if they so much as catch a word of it.

It's not the heavens that intervene but Grandmother Marilla. Instead of shuffling closer to the doors as the rest of them, she remains standing, her hand perched on the edge of a pew, and waits until I am level with her.

"Young man, please go walk with your father," she directs Carl. Then, without waiting for a response from him, "And you will walk with me, Rilla."

A quick glance at him tells me that Carl looks nonplussed, but he withdraws without further comment. He knows better than to argue with Grandmother Marilla.

(The truth is that Grandma Bertha might think Carl a delightful young man, but Grandmother Marilla has never warmed to him as much. Shirley thinks it's because she's as suspicious of vegans as she is of Catholics and I reckon he has a point. The way she sees it, if someone refuses to taste her roast, they are not to be trusted.)

I allow Grandmother Marilla to loop her arm through mine and draw me forward into direction of the door. "We cannot have you two be photographed together," she informs me quietly as we walk.

Frowning, I look at her. "Why ever not?"

"They are aware that he is your former boyfriend," she explains.

They _are_?

Well, this is news to me.

"I didn't know they knew," I reply. "But you're right. It would've looked bad, Carl and me together."

I've learned a lot about optics in the past few weeks and me walking by Carl's side, however innocently, wouldn't look good. The press, of course, would love it, but for all the wrong reasons.

"Quite," agrees Grandmother Marilla.

"How do you know?" I ask, as I watch Joy take a firm grip on Izzie's hand before leaving the church. "About them knowing about Carl?"

"An article was published in a newspaper a few days ago," answers Grandmother. "Did you not see it?"

Can't say I did, no.

"I try not to look at them much," I admit. "Ken said it's best to ignore what they write. He has people to keep track of everything that is written and promised to keep me in the loop about anything important, but they must not have considered this important enough to inform him."

It would be wrong to say that I don't look at any press at all, of course. But Ken advised early on not to get sucked into it and he was right. I got quite worked up over some of what published – not to mention the _comments_! – in the first week or two and have since tried to ignore it to the best of my ability. Not always successfully, but… I guess I'm only human and it's a hard thing to ignore completely.

"They were wrong about that," decides Grandmother Marilla, referring to Ken's staff. "I will ensure you are informed from now on. I am collecting clippings about everything written about you and John prints out articles from the computer."

I look at her, somewhat surprised, and lick my lips, not quite sure how to put this. "I… I appreciate this, but… it's not like I'm preparing for the Olympics or anything. _That_ would warrant the collecting of clippings, but this… this is nothing to be proud of."

"Perhaps not," concedes Grandmother Marilla. "It is, however, something of which you need to be kept informed. I quite agree with His Royal Highness that you oughtn't to be the one to read what is written about you. It might upset you. Hence why John and I will do it for you and inform you when there is anything of interest."

With that, she tugs me along with her through the doors and immediately the clicking intensifies by some measure. Of course, there's no thought of continuing this conversation with half a dozen photographers just steps away from us, but I feel a wave of gratefulness for my grandparents anyway. Because if I'm being honest, that just there was the most sensible suggestion I heard all day.

In another sensible turn of events, Grandmother Marilla starts talking about her friend Rachel's latest great-grandchild once we're vaguely within earshot of the reporters, which means I have to do nothing but nod and smile politely, which really makes for the most inoffensive pictures. And, true to my prediction, once they realise it's all they're going to get, the reporters, one by one, stop following us, so that by the time we reach Ingleside, they're all gone.

It's really nothing out of the ordinary.

Except that no-one told my family.

I mean, on some level, I get it. Weeks of being followed around taught me what to expect, but to them, this is new. Sure, right at the beginning, the press found them and reported their names and professions. And yes, my parents and sisters had one or two photographers waiting for them at work for a few days back in November (whereas Jem merely got a shared photo with Dad, Shirley got his old yearbook picture re-printed and no-one seems to have gotten hold of a photo of Walter at all). But they are not the story. I am. And the level of interest I incur daily is unfamiliar to them.

It's not like they aren't trying. Trying to act like this is normal, I mean. Throughout the King's annual Christmas speech, no-one makes any comment, and even when the TV shows the royal family's arrival to church (Ken's walking with his mother this time), the most they do is sneak glances at me. But then the programme cuts to _our_ walk from church and I guess that'd require more composure than I can ask of them.

"The royal family weren't the only ones to attend Christmas service today. In Canada, so did the Prince of Wales's new girlfriend, Rilla Blythe," informs the news presenter as a picture of Grandmother Marilla and me appears on the screen. (At least they didn't have any TV cameras.)

Immediately, all heads swivel towards me. I suppress a sigh.

"Rilla was seen walking from church with members of her family today. She is pictured here with her grandmother, whom she was named for" adds the news presenter. "What else do we know about her Christmas walk, Jennie?"

"I'm glad that you're asking, Bob," answers his co-presenter brightly, "because reliable sources say that she and her grandmother were talking about _babies_!" She wiggles her eyebrows at the last word and I feel the sudden urge to hit something.

Grandmother Marilla looks apologetic. "I'm sorry. I thought –"

I cut her off with a shake of my head. "So did I. It's alright." I suppose Ken would have known immediately how they would spin this, but there's just _so much_ to get right – and it's far too easy to get wrong.

"Do you think there's anything to it, Jennie?" asks Bob on screen.

Grandma Bertha makes an audible hmpf. "This used to be a reputable news channel," she mutters disdainfully and I know she's as put out at them featuring us in their news section as she is hurt in her journalist's honour.

Dad reaches for the remote, but Mum lays a hand on his arm. "No, let's finish this," she murmurs. Truth to be told, Dad doesn't look like he agrees – and I don't think _I_ do either – but the Jennie woman is already talking again, reclaiming everyone's attention.

"Unlikely, Bob," she tells her colleague. "According to sources, they aren't at that stage yet. Prince Ken certainly ignored all questions about Rilla when he arrived at church this morning."

"Bit rude, isn't it? Him refusing to acknowledge you?" asks Di and looks at me.

I scoff. "You've got a brain, Di. Use it."

Joy nods. "She's right, Di. If he had so much as uttered her name with a TV camera nearby, we wouldn't have six but _sixty_ reporters camping on our veranda in two hours' time."

In reply, Di pulls the kind of face she always does when someone else is right and she doesn't want to admit it, and turns back to the TV again.

"However, Rilla is all set, should she ever need support in child rearing," continues the Jennie woman as the TV cuts to a picture of Nan and Jerry, with Shirley lurking in the background. "Her sister, Nan, works in childcare and –"

" _Works in childcare_?" screeches Nan. " _Excuse me_? I'll be starting my PhD in clinical child psychology in autumn!"

"We know that, sweetheart," Jerry quickly assures and squeezes her shoulder.

Di isn't as merciful. "It's not like they're wrong, you know," she points out, grinning widely at Nan.

Nan glowers back. "It would be like saying you work in a laboratory!"

"Technically speaking, I _do_ work in a laboratory," Di shoots back immediately.

Opening and closing her mouth twice, Nan finally seems to decide to give up the argument. Turning away from her twin sister pointedly, she instead considers her picture on the TV screen again, grumbling, "At least my new coat looks nice."

Sure. At least there's that.

"Do you think we might be able to harness this somehow?" wonders Faith in that moment. "If we could get someone to report more about Di's work, it might raise awareness about the importance of vaccination."

Um… what?

Jem nods, tapping his chin. "Does the royal family vaccinate?" he asks me.

I blink. How would _I_ know?

"They certainly hunt," mutters Carl and folds his arms.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes to stop myself from glaring at him.

Thankfully, I can rely on Walter's distaste of an argument to make him resolve this one before it goes any further. "Does anyone know why they pixelated the faces of Jake and Izzie, but not of Bruce?" he changes the subject, nodding towards the TV, where they now show pictures of everyone in quick succession.

"Because we wrote them _letters_ ," replies Joy, grimly satisfied. "Anyone who publishes clear pictures of my children will pay the price!"

Yeah. No doubt about _that_.

"We can give you the letters we sent, if you want to take action as well," Dan offers to John and Rosemary Meredith. "They have even less of a reason to show Bruce than they have with our two."

Bruce's parents are quick to agree and I'm glad for it. No need to pull the poor boy into this as well. Jake already had to endure some teasing at school, though he doesn't talk much about it, and I really don't want another kid to get dragged into this.

Over on TV, they have now settled on a picture of Mum and Dad for the time being. "…whose books have climbed the bestseller lists in recent weeks," reports Bob, evidently meaning Mum.

"Is that true, Mrs Blythe?" asks Una, looking over from where she stands by the window.

Mum smiles at her. "Oh, yes. It's marvellous."

Um, _excuse me_?

Is she really using me to sell _books_ now? Isn't it enough that she based half of her books on our various childhood adventures anyway? (Come to think of it, I wonder when the press is going to figure _that_ out…)

My indignation isn't lost on Mum. "Don't look at me like that, darling," she remarks with a laugh. "Not everything that results from this attention must be bad on principle. If it gets more children reading, that is a marvellous thing."

Oh?

I do believe Rowling had that nicely covered without needing to encroach on my privacy first.

"Right," I mutter, feeling rebellious. "For the greater good."

But Mum has already turned away, so the only one catching the reference is Shirley, who grins at me from where he stands next to Grandpa John at the back of the room.

Thankfully, the TV report is just coming to a close with a photo montage of Ken and me, put together by slicing off Grandmother Marilla from my side and the Queen from his, and I can't even argue with Jem when he points out the cheesiness of the thing.

Bob and Jennie turn towards _real_ news now, reporting about bombings and shootings that took place in Northern Nigeria today. It's the third major terrorist attack this week, the others having taken place in Baghdad and Damascus, and the fact that they think it less newsworthy than picture of me walking from church would be laughable, if it weren't quite so sad.

Our party splits up as the proper news begins, with some settling down to watch and the others filing over towards kitchen and dining room to prepare Christmas lunch (with a hopeful Monday getting into everyone's way). I take the moment to slip away, quietly making my way upstairs and into my room. Once there, I immediately pick up my phone from the desk, but there's only a Christmas message from Chelsea.

Ken briefly called earlier today, just after I'd woken up, to wish me a Merry Christmas, and we're scheduled to speak later tonight. And yet, somehow, I find myself selecting his number anyway. I know he's busy with family stuff, like I am, and I certainly don't expect him to pick up, but –

"Hey, Ril," comes his voice after the third ring. Then, muffled, to someone else, "I'll be back in a minute."

I can hear faint voices in the background and rustling as he walks, then a door being shut, and he's back again. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine," I hurry to assure. "I don't even know why I called. I didn't want to disturb you."

"You aren't disturbing anything," he replies, sounding relaxed. "We were just having dinner."

Fancy dinner, in their castle, with the entire royal family present. And I'm not disturbing it? _Right_.

"You should probably go back. We can speak later," I suggest, my fingers fiddling with the quilt on my bed.

Ken laughs. "It's fine, really. It's just… family. Persis is sulking because our parents bought her the wrong yearling. Chris got drunk on Great-aunt Tanya's sherry and Aunt Mary's sons might be drunk as well. It's hard to tell with them sometimes. And Aunt Mary herself got into an argument with Uncle Al's new wife about the appropriateness of Ashley's clothing, which definitely added to the Christmas cheer."

Just family. Of course.

"Ashley is their daughter, isn't she?" I ask. "Of Uncle Al and…"

"Kimberly. The new wife," confirms Ken. A beat, before he starts chuckling. "Though to be honest, she isn't even that new anymore. They've been married for nine years. Ash is eight. They just about managed to pass her off as a honeymoon baby."

I squirm slightly. "About that…"

"Yes?" encourages Ken when I break off.

I take a deep breath. "There were reporters here today. When we came back from church."

Ken sighs. "Sorry about that. I had Arlene put pressure on them to leave you alone, but you can never get everyone in line."

"No, it's fine. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, really. They took their pictures and left. Nothing to get worked up about," I reassure him.

He makes a thoughtful sound. "Then what is bothering you?"

So, he's picked up on that.

"Well, I… I walked with Grandmother Marilla when the reporters were there. She told me about her friend's great-grandchild, thinking it was an innocent subject. Only that someone overheard us and…" I trail off.

"And now they are suggesting that there's another reason for you to be talking about babies," finishes Ken.

I sigh. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be," he replies, his voice sympathetic. " _I_ am sorry that they're doing this to you. But there's no stopping those speculations, whatever you talk about. The more disreputable rags love to stir the rumour mill. Nothing to quickly shift some papers like the potential prospect of a royal bastard."

"So… we didn't mess up?" I ask quietly.

"No, Rilla. You didn't mess up," he promises. "In fact, you're doing amazing. So is your family. I can only imagine how tough it must be to have that kind of attention focused on you without warning and yet, you're all holding up admirably well."

It feels good to hear him say that. So, _so_ good.

Searching for words, I twist my fingers around the edge of the quilt. "I'm… glad. Glad that you think so. And you're right, about my family. They're very good about this. Supportive, too. It's only…" I sigh.

"What is it, love?" Ken prompts gently.

"I don't think they're really… really _getting_ this. Not all of them, anyway," I admit reluctantly. "I mean, they tried to be helpful and act as I told them to, but… they also seemed a bit excited. About being on TV and everything. And some seemed to think about how they could use the attention for… other purposes. Mum argues that anything that gets children to read is good and it's not that she's wrong and I know that she doesn't have any control over who buys her books anyway, but…"

"But you'd prefer if it didn't involve having your face splashed over the front pages," finishes Ken for me.

I nod. "Yeah."

He takes a moment before he answers. "I can see how that would be annoying. But you shouldn't be too hard on them. They might not totally get it, but then, this kind of attention is very new to them. They have no idea what you face every day, so they truly don't know any better. And I'm sure they don't mean to hurt you."

"No, I don't think they mean it to be hurtful," I concede, a little reluctantly, "but…"

But it hurts nonetheless.

I don't say it out loud, but Ken seems to guess it anyway. "So, tell them," he suggests. "Tell them when what they say hurts you. Tell your mother that getting children to read is a noble cause, but you'd much rather not have it happen on your back."

"I could do that," I agree slowly.

"Do. And you'll call me when there's anything else?" he asks.

I nod slightly, feeling a smile creep on my lips. "I will. Thank you."

"Anytime," he replies and I know he's smiling, too. "But I must ask you to excuse me now, because I _think_ that Dickie and Chris are trying to climb into suits of armour and while the sight might be worth it for the pictures, someone might scold me if I don't intervene."

That actually gets me to laugh. "Go, by all means. But make sure to take that picture first."

"For your tell-all book?" he jokes. From the background sounds, I can tell he's already walking again.

"The very same," I confirm. "Now, _go_!"

"As the lady commands," he replies snappily. A second later, there's a tremendous crash on his side of the line, before the call is suddenly cut.

I slowly lower the phone. Looking down at it for a moment, I can't help laughing quietly.

Family, indeed.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Father and Son' (written by Cat Stevens, released by him in 1970)._

* * *

 _To wow:  
Thanks for your review and for getting back with a follow up as well. You're definitely right that it's sometimes tricky to get the tone right in writing without turning a message into a smiley fest. We've all been there, so I totally understand._  
 _I didn't read you initial message as hyper critical, either. In fact, I appreciate your thoughts, even if we will have to agree to disagree on the details. But that's alright. We are all allowed to have our own opinions, after all :)._  
 _I'm glad to hear that you're enjoying the story, even though the characters might sometimes warrant the odd side-eye. I definitely have a lot of plans for this story and quite a few twists up my sleeve yet, so I hope that when Rilla's journey is over (someday far in the future), we will have arrived at a conclusion that meets your approval._

 _To Guest:_  
 _Thank you for sticking up for the story. I'm sure it was just a case of some nuances of tone getting lost in writing, which happens to the best of us, and that no-one meant to unduly criticise, but I appreciate that you stuck up for the story anyway. And I promise we're alright, the story and I :)._


	30. I had to have this talk with you

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
December 2011_

 **I had to have this talk with you**

There's a knock on the door and I reluctantly turn to look at it. "Yes?"

A mere second later, Dad pops his head in. "Can we come in?" Behind him I can see a flash of red, which is most likely to be Mum.

"Sure," I nod, even though I'm not entirely sure I want company. (The thing about living alone is that I've grown used to having my quiet downtimes. And my family can be a bit overwhelming, especially after not having seen them for several months.)

It is indeed Mum who follows Dad into the room. While he sits down at my desk, swivelling the chair around to face us, she takes a seat next to me on the bed.

I eye them a little warily. I know an intervention when I see one.

Mum reaches out to pat my knee through the blanket. "How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Good," I assure. "Fine."

My parents exchange a meaningful look.

"The photographers turning up at church the other day… we felt their presence upset you," Mum explains carefully.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. "No. They didn't upset me. Or at least, they didn't upset me anymore than they usually do."

Another glance crosses between my parents. "What do you mean by 'usually'?" asks Dad after a moment.

I shrug. "I don't exactly get to leave the house anymore without some photographers lurking in front of the building. Christmas wasn't in any way different from that. Just another day."

They look at each other again and I really wish they wouldn't do that. If they're here to talk, why not talk _with_ me instead of exchanging nonverbal messages _about_ me?

"That must be… trying," intones Mum, before reaching out again, this time to squeeze my arm.

Once more, I shrug. "It's not particularly enjoyable, but it's not something I can change. I've found that if I give them their picture, they usually leave me alone after that. I tried to run or hide from them in the beginning, but that just made them follow me and search for me, which is even worse."

"You're very composed about this," Dad observes from his place at the desk.

"I got used to it, I guess. I mean, yes, in the beginning, when there were twenty or more of them, it could be scary, but there aren't nearly as many hanging around anymore. I know most of their faces by now, too, which makes it easier. It's… unpleasant, but it is what it is." I suppress the urge to shrug again.

Mum smiles at me. "I'm proud of how mature you are about this."

"So am I," agrees Dad, but he looks more thoughtful. "But if that wasn't what upset you… what did?"

I take a moment to answer, looking down at my quilt as I order the words in my head. "I wasn't upset, per se. It was more… it was a surprise to learn that my own family is thinking about how the public interest in me can be harnessed to stop people from hunting or make people get vaccinated or sell people more books." The ending comes out a little more sharpish than intended, but I don't do anything to take it back.

Whatever my parents expected, it obviously wasn't that. For two or three seconds, they both look at me, before exchanging another loaded look. (This is really starting to make me feel twitchy.)

"No-one is using you to sell anything," Dad tries to placate. I sit up a little straighter and draw my legs under me, away from Mum's patting hands.

"Your father is right," Mum adds. "I just pointed out that there are positive aspects to this, and getting more children to read is one of them."

Rubbing my neck, I turn my head away from them for a moment, looking over at the window. "What makes you think your new readership actually consists of children?"

A short laugh from Mum makes me turn back towards her. "I write books _for_ children, darling."

"I know you do," I concede, making sure to keep my voice level. "And I agree that some of those books you're selling right now might end up in the hands of children. But others are surely bought by adults trying to figure out whether I'm the girl making deals with God or the one throwing a perfectly good cake into a brook."

I don't think that particular thought has crossed her mind before, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dad nodding slowly.

"Has there been anything in the press about this?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Not about this. But I think it's just a matter of time." Because if the last weeks have taught me anything it's that there's no information about me that isn't worth an article to them. Even if it's just which economics books I checked out of the college library or what kind of sandwich I had for lunch.

(I have no idea how they always find me, but they seem to have a real knack for it. Alas, we never figured out how they first found out about Ken and me either, even though the guy called Emmett really tried his best. We can guess, but we can't know for sure. Which is… slightly disconcerting, to be honest.)

"And besides, even if it _is_ children reading the books," I add, while reaching for my phone, "the increase in public interest comes attached to _these_ types of articles."

The screen springs to life with the press of a button and I hold it out for Mum to see without even so much as glancing at it myself. I don't need to. I know exactly what she's looking at right now.

 _Naughty Rilla – Not Such a Nice Girl?_

This, splashed below a picture of myself, taken at some party or club or another. It's not the only picture either. Someone was apparently _really_ thorough about searching for pictures of me partying. They put together a nice little collection, too.

The accompanying text hold some thinly-veiled jibes, questioning whether I am too fast or too much of a party animal to be stepping out with the heir to the British throne. It's all rather unpleasant, really (and badly written, too – Grandma Bertha would get apoplexy from reading it). I really should have known better than to look at it. I managed to ignore most of the articles claiming I'm pregnant, after all (though Di alerted me to a nice piece praising my fashion style and Shirley showed me an odd one about our ancestors turning into cows… or something). Still, it's hard to ignore _everything_.

"This isn't… very nice," Mum says slowly, while holding out the phone for Dad to see.

"That's one way of putting it," I nod.

"Where did they get the pictures?" wonders Mum. "Did they follow you when you went out with your friends?"

That actually makes me laugh, though there's little humour behind it. "I haven't gone clubbing since October. It's a bit of a hassle, with a dozen reporters following me around, you know? The most I did was go for dinner with Chelsea and Megan to celebrate exams being over for the year and they already did an entire article just about that before Christmas."

(I did surprisingly well in those exams. Having reporters camping on my doorstep made me stay at home quite a bit these past weeks and with little else left to do, I ended up turning towards doing college stuff. So that, admittedly, might be _one_ benefit of this entire situation.)

Dad hands me back my phone. "Then these are old pictures?"

"Must be," I confirm. "Some look familiar as well. It's not unlikely that someone went through my Facebook page before Shirley set it to private. Or else, they filched my friends' social media. I asked them to take down all pictures of me, but they might not have gotten them all, or maybe just not gotten to them in time. Not that it matters much anyway. It's done."

I look down at the phone in my hand. I must say when I looked at the article for the first time this morning… well, it surprised me. Not the fact that it exists at all, because I've come to expect new articles about myself roughly every other day, just as I've come to expect the photographers to be there in front of the house every single morning. It's more… I wasn't prepared for the nastiness of this, I guess.

I mean, yes, I know these are pictures of me partying, but isn't that what people _do_? I'm not doing anything outrageous in any of the photos either. Dancing, laughing with friends, having the occasional drink… and yes, my skirts may be short and my heels high, but it's not like I'm half-naked! It doesn't warrant… this.

It _certainly_ doesn't warrant some of the comments posted below the story. 'Harlot' is one of the nicer words thrown around. Several people also question whether I'm having a bad influence on Ken and for some reason, there is a lot of speculation about what the Queen will think.

Dropping the phone down on the blanket, screen down, I instead look up at Mum. "This is part of the public interest that gets more children to read your books," I point out to her. "You will forgive me if I'd rather have my privacy instead."

I'm not even mad, I realise. Not at her, not even at that stupid article. More stunned at finding complete strangers judging me for having a life and calling me _names_. Hurt, too, at least a bit. Somewhat helpless. But mostly, there's a feeling of resignation that precludes an emotion as strong as anger.

Mum sighs and leans forward to touch my arm. "I didn't know they wrote such things about you."

Unfolding my legs, I get up from the bed and walk over to the window instead. Turning my back to it, I survey my parents for a moment. "Look, I realise that the public interest is part of the package deal of dating Ken. I walked into this one on my own. Still, it would be nice to know my family is behind me, instead of informing me about all the other people who might benefit from strangers calling me a harlot on the internet."

For a long moment, no-one says anything. Finally, it's Dad replying, "You're right. Some of what has been said was insensitive. But I'm sure no-one meant to hurt you and you must remember that we're all still adjusting to this situation as well.

"I know that," I nod. "And I'm sorry you're having to do it at all. Adjust, I mean. But some of those comments _did_ sting and Ken said to tell you and… well, I guess I have just done that."

I'm quite proud of how I did it, too. It might be because I just lack the energy for any more tempestuous reactions right now, but I do think I got my point across very calmly. It's not even about laying blame either. It's just that, well… we're all adjusting, as Dad said. It's probably best to get this out of the way early, lest it starts to rankle.

"You have and we heard you," confirms Mum. "I promise you no more comments about the reading habits of underprivileged children. Alright?"

That actually gets a smile from me, mirroring her own. "Alright."

"And I will remind your brother that we all agree about the benefits of vaccination but that there are better ways to educate the public – beginning with our actual patients," adds Dad with a twinkle in his eyes.

I nod, turning my smile on him.

Privately, I'm feeling quite grateful to Ken for convincing me to tell them about what bothered me. The secrecy of the last year has made it a little difficult for me to correctly gauge what to talk about and what to keep quiet, but he was right in this case. It was good to get this cleared up.

And speaking of secrecy…

There's a dark figure strolling through the snowy garden below my window and even out of the corner of my eye, I recognise it as Walter.

"Jem's just being Jem," I remark into Dad's direction. "It's actually Walter I'm more concerned about. He's acting… a little strange."

"I think he feels hurt that you didn't tell him about your relationship with Ken," offers Mum immediately.

"That wasn't personal. I didn't tell Jem or Shirley either," I remind her. Below in the garden, the Walter-figure has stopped under a group of trees.

Mum hums in thought. "Perhaps you should tell him that?"

Well… it did work out rather nicely this time around, didn't it? The talking, I mean.

"I could do that," I agree slowly, taking a step away from the window.

"Do," encourages Mum. "I know he'd like it."

I believe her, too. Out of us seven children, Walter has always been the one Mum could read easiest.

Thus, in honour of my new discovery about the power of talk, I find myself in the garden mere minutes later, all bundled up against the cold. (Before I left the house, Dad briefly stopped me for a hug and to ask whether we were good. And I truly think that yes, we are.)

Monday, who left little doubt that he _absolutely, totally, very much_ wants to accompany me outside, bounces ahead of me through the garden, whirling up snow and barking in delight. I don't know how he does it, but that dog is seemingly never in a bad mood.

Walter still stands under the trees and watches me approach him. When I raise a hand, he returns the greeting, but that doesn't really mean anything. Even when put out, Walter can usually be relied upon to be polite. He becomes moody, but not mean.

"Hey there," I greet as I come to a halt next to him.

"Hello, Rilla," he answers, turning his head towards me for a moment, before looking back at Monday.

"Isn't it a bit too cold for him?" Walter asks after a moment, nodding towards the dog.

I follow his gaze to where Monday is currently leaping up excitedly and trying to catch lone snowflakes in his snout. "I don't know," I shrug. "He doesn't look like he wants to go inside to me."

Walter makes a sound that is neither agreement nor disapproval, but lets the argument slide. Instead, he lets his eyes travel upwards, to the high branches of the trees we stand under.

" _Thus, on a naked tree-limb, blasted / By tardy winter's whistling chill, / A single leaf which has outlasted / Its season will be trembling still_ ," he suddenly quotes (or, you know, I'm _reasonably_ sure it's a quote.)

"Pushkin?" I guess. If in doubt, it's usually Pushkin with Walter. (In fact, it was his frustration with the English translations of Eugene Onegin that made him learn Russian in the first place. He wanted to be able to understand the original and, well, I guess he does now.)

Walter nods. "It's from a poem called 'I have outlasted all desire'. I've seen people claim it's part of Eugene Onegin, but it's not. It was used in a Russian stage adaption from the 1936 though, which might explain the connection. Prokofiev wrote the music, but the play was cancelled by censors. To my knowledge, it has never been shown."

I nod. Not that this interests me _in the least_ , but at least he's talking, so I'll take it. Even if it's about obscure Russian poems.

"There's another translation," Walter adds thoughtfully. " _As conquered by the last cold air / When Winter whistles in the wind / Alone upon a branch that's bare / A trembling leaf is left behind._ I can never decide which one I prefer, but of course, both are inferior to the Russian original."

Yes. Of course they are.

(Do I even need to mention that my remembrance of Russian literature does not extend past _Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way_? And I don't even think I ever finished that one. The love story was somewhat interesting, but I just didn't share the fascination with agriculture. Like, not _at all_.)

Walter has lapsed into silence and I take this as my opportunity to seize the moment. My eyes fixed on Monday, currently half buried beneath a bushel, I remark, "I came here to talk to you about… well, my relationship with Ken, I guess. I have a feeling that it upset you that I didn't tell you about it myself and I wanted to say that I think I understand it. It wasn't anything personal though. I just… I planned to talk to you and Jem and Shirley this Christmas, but it was taken out of my hands."

Humming in thought (very much like Mum does), Walter turns his head to look at me. "I admit that I couldn't help wondering whether it was a lack of trust that stopped you from telling me."

I shake my head decidedly. "It wasn't that. Definitely not. I think I just… I got tired of telling. Tired of everyone having an opinion. Tired of having the same conversation over and over again."

"We only have an opinion because we care about you," Walter points out.

"I know that," I concede quickly (while crossing my fingers in the hope that he won't now feel compelled to offer up his own opinion). "It can still be tiresome to have everyone and their dog comment on your love life."

"Hmh," makes Walter. "I can imagine Monday's opinion wouldn't be very helpful."

That was… that was a joke, wasn't it?

Peering over at Walter, I can indeed see him smiling, thus confirming him to be joking. Which is good. Joking means he isn't mad.

"No," I agree, pointedly cheerful. "He wasn't helpful at all. But then, what to expect from a dog whose favourite hobby is chasing his tail?" (Which Monday is actually currently doing, kicking up lots of snow in the process.)

"Not much," nods Walter as he surveys Monday's antics with obvious amusement.

I keep my head turned towards the dog, but am still watching Walter out of the corner of my eye. I must say, this was easier than I feared it would be. Walter can keep quite the grudge if he wants to, so I didn't expect him to give in this quickly. Unless…

"Can I ask you a question?" I ask, somewhat cautiously.

"Sure," he agrees, while picking up a stick to throw it for an excited Monday.

"Okay, here's the thing," I begin slowly. "When Ken and I first started dating, his security people did a background check on me. It also included you and Mum and Dad and the others. To make sure none of you was secretly a drug kingpin, right? Anyway, I don't think Ken ever saw the files, but they gave him a short briefing at some point."

Is it just me or did Walter's posture just stiffen considerably?

"Is that so?" he replies and there's a strange undertone to his voice.

I nod firmly. "Yes, it is. And, well, he never told be what he was told during that briefing, but he _did_ mention that you'd understand about me keeping secrets, because your job required that of you as well. So, you know… that got me thinking about what it is that you actually do all day."

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. He doesn't even make any move to pick up the stick Monday lays at his feet, so that finally, I give in to the dog's beseeching eyes and lolling tongue and throw the stick for him again. Monday happily scampers off and that seems to rouse Walter from his thoughts.

"I was hired to do translations from Russian for the government," he answers carefully.

"I knew that," I confirm. "I am just not sure how that requires you to keep secrets."

A second passes, before he replies, "I'm not translating school books or opera programs."

Yeah, I didn't think he was.

"You mean you're translating secret stuff?" I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly as I look at him. (The truth is, I have come up with an explanation for this all on my own. I'm not stupid. It's just… it all sounds a bit hard to believe, doesn't it?)

"Top secret, some of it," confirms Walter, as he bends down to take the stick from Monday.

I nod slowly. "And when you say you work for the government, you really mean…"

"The CSIS," he finishes, as we both watch Monday bounce after the stick.

The Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

 _Right_.

"So… you're really a spy or something?" (It sounds even weird out loud than it did in my head.)

Walter chuckles softly and turns his head to look at me. "That sounds rather dramatic. I work for the CSIS, yes, but I don't run around in a trench coat and a cloud of smoke all day. Originally, I really only did translation work, but they've since given me some other tasks as well."

"Which you can't talk about," I deduce.

He shakes his head. "Not in detail, no."

Hmm…

"Any trips coming up then?" I ask, acting my most innocent,

Walter laughs quietly. "Not at the moment. Though even if there were, I couldn't really tell you."

Because it's secret. Of course.

"Just as you haven't told us anything about who you really work for," I remark, somewhat pointedly. (Because _really_ , him being put out at me keeping secrets is a prime example of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?)

Walter sighs. "Mum and Dad know. I'm not expressively forbidden from telling the rest of you who I work for either, but…"

He trails off, but I have already understood. "But you weren't keen on the scrutiny," I finish for him. "Or the questions."

"No," confirms Walter with another sigh. "No, I wasn't."

"Well, welcome to the club," I declare cheerfully and clap him on the back. "You have now successfully worked out why I didn't tell you about Ken and you are now officially forbidden from being mad at me for not doing it."

"I was never mad at you," Walter is quick to point out.

I shrug. "Details. You were certainly moody about it for a bit. Which you are also forbidden from being, because otherwise, I will have no choice but to call you Pot henceforth." A beat. "What's that called in Russian?"

"Pot?" he asks, looking a little nonplussed. "That would be _gorshok_."

" _Gorshok_ ," I repeat, satisfied. " _Gorshok_ you shall be, if you ever make a fuss about me keeping secrets again."

Walter blinks at me for a moment, before starting to shake his head, laughing quietly. "You are right," he admits.

"Of course I am," I reply confidently.

I would have said something more, if only to harp on about my rightness a little longer, but Monday takes that moment to return from the far end of the garden. Except that instead of the stick Walter threw for him, he proudly carries a branch that is about four times as long as he is and so wide he can barely get is muzzle around it. He carefully lays it down on Walter's feet and stares up at us, his tail wagging as fast as it will go.

"So…" I begin slowly as we both look down at the dog and his ridiculously big tree branch. "What does 'foolish dog' mean in Russian?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Jolene' (written by Dolly Parton, released by her in 1973)._

* * *

 _A/N: Special thanks to OriginalMcFishie, who has kindly taken over beta-reading duties while oz diva is away on vacation!_


	31. With no place to go

_Halifax, Canada  
January 2012_

 **With no place to go**

With a sigh, I watch as the line in front of me moves forward the tiniest bit. I've been standing here for over 30 minutes and I am still one turn away from the booths of the US border police people. And, I mean, I get wanting to check who enters your country, but would it be too much to ask to have a reasonable number of officers on duty?

At least coming from Canada, we get pre-clearing _before_ the flight. There was an Indian girl in my macroeconomics course and she told me about once waiting for three hours at customs at JFK. This here is admittedly somewhat faster, but still. This line is moving at a snail's pace.

(Not for the first time, I think back to Ken pointing out his getting preferential treatment at customs and feel a grumpy kind of envy. I, too, want a diplomatic passport to shove under people's noses!)

The man in front of me shuffles forward two steps and when I don't make up the gap immediately, someone pokes me in the back. Looks like I'm not the only one whose patience is wearing thin.

My first instinct is to turn around and glare, but I manage to control myself. By keeping my head down and my hair under a knitted toque, I have so far evaded recognition at this airport and I'd like to keep it that way, please and thank you. (The woman who printed out my boarding pass at the check-in counter did, naturally, recognise my name, but it was only after I had turned around to leave that she leaned over to alert her colleague. When I dared a glance back, I could see them giggling.)

With nothing else to do, I take out my phone and check for new messages. There's one from Dan (him and Joy and the kids having travelled ahead some days ago) asking to confirm my ETA so he knows when to pick me up at LaGuardia, and another one from Seraphina, suggesting a movie night next weekend. Quickly, I reply to them both, and when I'm done, we have thankfully moved on a little. I am now past the last turn and just a little distance away from the border police officers. With little else to do until I have finally reached them, I use the time to do some discreet people watching.

The man in front of me seems nervous. He's fidgety and steals constant glances at the customs booths. Of course, that could easily be down to a bad experience with the officers staffing them or with the fact that he looks to be of Asian descent (which is always more likely to get someone questioned more thoroughly, for all kinds of nasty racist reasons), but I have little doubt that they're going to call him up for a secondary security screening. When they smell nervousness, these border police officers turn into bloodhounds without any further warning.

In front of the Asian man and just about to be called up to one of the booths is a couple with two small children and I immediately feel a twinge of sympathy. If there's anyone grumpier than the immigration officers in this hall, it's those two children. The parents look already stressed out and they haven't even come close to a plane!

With the man in front of me walking over to the next free counter, I reach into my bag for my passport and the necessary paperwork. (Seriously, considering the fact that most of that paperwork comes courtesy of the US government in the first place, they are strangely adamant that I always carry hard copies with me whenever I attempt to go back to the US. You'd think they'd have this in their computers, but… apparently not so.)

The family, unsurprisingly, gets cleared before the Asian-looking man does, and I quickly take their place at the customs booth. If I have learned one thing it's that US border police aren't known for their patience.

"Papers?" asks a bored blonde woman, even as I am already placing my passport in front of her.

I already had it open at the page with my F1 visa stamp (student visa, that is), but she flicks through it anyway. Not that there's anything else in there but a stamp proving my entry into Switzerland in 2007. And, I mean, is there a more inoffensive place in the world than _Switzerland_?

"Form I-20," demands the woman and I slide over the document to her. It was issued by NYU and has all kinds of information about my studies, like where and what I study and when it began and when it's expected to end, right down to financial information. I have to have it signed by someone at NYU before I leave the country, too, or else, they're not letting me in anymore.

"What is the purpose of your stay in the United States?" enquires the woman, quite as if that wasn't absolutely obvious from the form I just handed her.

"To finish my studies I began there in 2008," I answer, trying not to appear impatient. I know the spiel. It's the same every single sodding time.

"How long do you intend to stay in the US?" adds the woman.

"Until my graduation," I reply. "That is, until May this year." It's the date on the Form I-20 and I'd do well not to say anything else. Overstaying your visa is _a very serious crime_ , apparently.

"What was the purpose of your stay in Canada?" the woman wants to know.

Not that I have any idea why that is any of her business, but of course I answer anyway. Total cooperation and all that. "I celebrated Christmas with my family."

"Where in Canada does your family live?" (God, she's nosy, that one.)

"In Halifax." A beat, as I try to decide whether any more information would be _too much_ information, but then settle for full disclosure anyway. "We have a holiday home on Prince Edward Island. That's where we spent the holidays."

The woman makes an indecipherable sound, before moving on to the next line of questioning. "Have you ever held employment in the United States?"

"Just on-campus." Under my visa, that's the only kind of employment I'm allowed anyway. If I were to start waitressing at a place not in connection with NYU, I'd face immediate deportation.

"Do you intend to take up employment in the US in the future?" Her voice is strangely droning. It grates on my nerves.

"No." I shake my head. "I intend to return to Canada for work after I graduate." (In truth, I have no idea whether I won't maybe one day want to work in the US. But if I tell her that, she'll think I might overstay my visa to look for work and she won't like that. No need to complicate this process unduly.)

Sharply moving her head, the woman directs me to the fingerprint scanner at my right side. I know the drill, so I get all ten fingerprints and my picture taken with just minimal instructions. If, however, I thought this might improve the woman's mood, I was mistaken. With the biometrics done, she turns to her computer and starts typing without so much as another look at me.

It gives me an opportunity to let my gaze rove a little. The couple and their two kids are gone, but at the other end of the hall, I can see the Asian man being led through a set of doors by another officer. (Called it!) His place at the booth has been taken by a woman and her decidedly spotty teenaged son.

I am still marvelling at the fact that so many spots can fit on one single face, when the police woman clears her throat to get my attention. I turn to her with a smile, holding out my hand for my papers and passport, but instead find her holding out a slip of paper. Frowning I accept it, noticing the large black X printed on it.

"Miss, I must ask you to step out of line. Someone will come to collect you presently."

Um…

"What for?" I ask slowly, turning the paper slip in my hand.

"We have some additional questions," answers the woman, not missing a beat.

Some additional…? But… but…

Are they sending me to _secondary security screening_?

"This must be a misunderstanding," I tell her with a forced little laugh. "I have all my papers in order. I never had any issues entering the US."

"Please step out of line, Miss," the woman repeats, her face expressionless. "Someone will be with you shortly."

Stunned, I look between her and the large black X on my receipt. "My passport? And my visa papers?" I ask finally, my gaze settling on the navy booklet and the papers still lying on the desk in front of the woman.

"We're keeping this for the time being. You will get it back at an appropriate time," she replies. There's a tinge of sharpness to her voice now that I recognise as impatience.

Not wanting to anger her further, I slowly take a couple of steps back. Looking around, I can see a man approaching, wearing the dark blue uniform of US customs. "Please come with me, Miss," he asks upon having reached me, moving his hand to indicate the double doors through which the Asian man disappeared earlier.

Lowering my head, I quickly walk in direction of the doors, hoping that none of the other prospective passengers in the room will recognise me. The very last thing I need is to have this splashed all over the _Daily Mail_ tomorrow.

Alas, it's not my lucky day.

"Look, Mum," calls out the spotty teenager as we pass him. "Isn't that the chick who dates that prince?"

"Austin!" chides his mother. But she, too, is peering at me.

Not that it has any effect on Austin anyway. "They're taking her away. Do you think she did something illegal?" he asks, clearly fascinated by the thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him staring, mouth hanging slightly open.

"Austin!" scolds the mother again. (And yet, what's betting she's going to tell this to all of her neighbours the first chance she gets?)

Part of me is tempted to stop and give Austin a piece of my mind myself, but I know that's absolutely out of the question. For one, the police guy might let me walk on my own for now, but he doesn't seem to be the cosy type and I don't doubt he's going to drag me to that room forcibly if he thinks I'm resisting. For another, me detained by US border police is a juicy enough story for the press as it is. I don't need them to have another one of me snapping at law-abiding citizens. (Never mind that I'd bet just about anything on Austin smoking pot in his free time, so how law-abiding he really is is up for debate.)

So, I just lower my head a little more and quicken my steps and pray that this entire mess will be over soon.

"This way," directs the officer as we step through the double doors, and points me towards a holding area to the side. "Wait here," he instructs. "Someone will be with you."

"How long will this take?" I ask cautiously, as he is already turning away.

A beat, before he slowly turns to look at me again. "As long as it takes." And the tone of his voice makes it immediately clear that he doesn't care the slightest bit that I have a flight to catch in a little over an hour.

With a sigh, I watch the officer leave, before pushing my bag further up my shoulder and stepping into the holding area. It's not filled to capacity, but it is far from empty as well. Which is… which is pretty weird, isn't it? If you think about it, I mean.

We are in Canada. And while us Canadians are generally far less prone to bullying than US border police is, we also don't let people in willy-nilly. We've got quite good checks at our own airports, right? And the only country we share a land border with _is_ the US, so any illegals or criminals entering by land were in the US before they came here. What I'm saying is that most, if not all of these people in here were approved for entry by Canada. Which makes you wonder what the bloody Americans problem is, really. (Of course, I can't help but notice that the only other white person in here is a man in his fifties who looks… less than well-cared for. So, you know, that might be a hint. We certainly seem to have come a long way from "give me your tired, your poor" and all that.)

Alas, I have no idea why _I_ am here either. And no way to find out until some of these people deign to speak with me and allow me to clarify whatever misunderstanding lies at the root of this.

Not that they're in a hurry.

Having sat down on a not very comfortable plastic chair, I feel tempted to pull out my phone, but think better of it. I can't imagine these people much like someone using their phone while they're…. being investigated, or something. (Never mind that we're technically still in sodding Canada!)

Instead, I look up at a large clock hanging on one wall and make a mental note of the time. Just a little before noon. Moving my gaze downwards, I see the Asian man who was in front of me in the queue. He meets my eye and smiles sympathetically.

"When does your flight leave?" he enquires politely.

I frown. "Quarter past one. Do you think…?"

But he has already started shaking his head before I have finished the question. "If you're lucky, they'll have you in for questioning by that time," he explains.

I take a deep breath. Just effing great!

"You've done this before?" I ask, moving my hand to encompass the holding area and everything behind it.

He nods, looking resigned. "My name is similar to another name they have on one of their lists. I get stopped almost every time."

Which explains his earlier nervousness. Poor guy.

"I have no idea why I'm here," I confess. "No-one said."

"They don't," nods the man. "They like to keep you in the dark for as long as possible."

Charming people.

Over his head, the long hand of the clock ticks forward one.

I take a deep breath. "So, now, we just…"

"We wait," finishes the man. "We just wait."

And wait we do.

We wait as the clock moves forward to half past twelve, then one o'clock. We're still waiting when the time for my flight to depart comes and goes. We wait as other people leave and arrive at the holding area, none of them looking even remotely happy to be here. We wait and wait and wait, while time moves like molasses. By half past one, I feel an irrational hatred towards the clock hanging on the wall. By two o'clock, I am devising elaborate murder plans against any and all people who might somehow be held responsible for this. (It doesn't quite matter who I am murdering in my mind. The very act of imagining it makes me feel a little better.)

At five past two, the Asian man gets called to see an officer.

"Good luck," I wish him as he passes me.

"You, too," he nods, before disappearing behind yet another door.

Another five minutes pass and I am just wondering whether the power granted to US border control also extends to manipulating time to pass at a fraction of its normal speed, when a cheerless man comes over to the holding area and points at me. "You."

Taking this as an order to follow him, I quickly get to my feet and stumble after him, through a different door than the Asian man and into the office behind.

"Sit," orders the man and I do as I am told. By this point, there's little I wouldn't do to get out of this strange situation. This… limbo.

With the officer sitting down in a chair that looks much more comfortable than mine, we settle into a round of questioning that includes the usual questions of whether I was ever a member of the Nazi party, the mafia or a terrorist organisation (which _has_ to make you wonder if anyone ever says yes to those) and goes over most of what the woman already asked earlier, just even more in depth.

Twenty minutes later, it is still ongoing and I still have no idea what their effing problem is.

I bite my lip to keep from sighing. I feel a headache coming on and I have no idea when they're going to let me leave. (After which I still have a two-and-a-half-hours flight to suffer through – provided there's another one going to New York today, of course.)

With a scraping noise, the man suddenly shoves his chair back, making me sit up straighter in surprise. When I also move to stand up, he shakes his head. "Sit."

Slowly, I let myself sink back down on the chair. The man has already turned, and, without another word, left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. For several seconds, I stare at the door, not knowing what to do. I'd like to take out my phone and call Dan, to tell him I'm going to be _very_ late, but there's a camera above the door and I don't dare. So, I just sit back, fold my hands in my lap and wait.

Ten minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty minutes.

Only after thirty-seven minutes is there a short knock on the door, before it is opened, revealing yet another man in a border police uniform.

"Miss Blythe?" he asks. "Good afternoon. My name is Crawford Drew and I'd like to have a little chat with you, if that's alright."

Too flabbergasted by this sudden show of politeness, I can do nothing but nod. (I am, in fact, too surprised to even snigger at the name.)

Crawford Drew takes his seat on the other side of the desk and places a closed folder on it.

"You're studying at New York University, I have seen," he remarks with a smile.

Slowly, I nod. I'm still not sure whether I can trust him.

"What made you decide on New York?" he enquires, looking genuinely interested.

I blink at him, feeling stumped for a moment. "I guess… my sister and her family went there and, well… I liked the idea of studying in New York, I think? It sounded like an adventure."

"So, your sister lives there," repeats Crawford Drew man thoughtfully. "Do you have other friends in New York as well? Maybe a boyfriend?"

Huh? Doesn't this man read the papers?

"Friends, yes," I confirm. "No boyfriend though. Not in New York, I mean. Not anymore."

Crawford Drew nods. "But you dated US citizens in the past?"

"Two of my former boyfriends were American." (Coyote Ugly Guy might have been as well, but I have no way of knowing for sure and besides, he hardly counts.)

"Hmm…" makes Crawford Drew. For a moment, he considers me pensively, before asking, "Are you aware that some young women come to the US with a view to finding an American husband?"

Does he think…?

I can't help laughing at the ridiculousness of the thought. "No offence, Sir, but I'm not some kind of marriage fraudster. If that's what you're implying."

He smiles at me. "I'm not implying anything, Miss Blythe. I am just asking questions."

Yeah. Because I haven't been asked enough of those today.

"There are some discrepancies we need to clarify," explains Crawford Drew kindly. "You could speed up the process by giving us your phone."

My _phone_?

"I… I'm afraid I can't do that," I stutter, my foot angling to draw the handbag sitting by my chair a little closer.

Crawford Drew makes a disappointed face. "And why is that?"

"My boyfriend is… he is somewhat famous. You might have heard about it?" I look at him questioningly, but his face betrays no thought. "Anyway, his number is in my phone. I can't risk… it getting into the wrong hands."

For a long moment, Crawford Drew just looks at me thoughtfully. "What was the last date you and your boyfriend went on?" he finally asks.

I stare at him. What's that got to do with everything?

"We… we don't really go out on dates," I reply slowly.

"Quite an unusual relationship, isn't it?" wonders Crawford Drew. He's still very polite, but something about his demeanour makes me feel uneasy.

"We went to an open-air cinema," I tell him, even as I wonder why I feel the need to defend myself. "And the last time we met up was at The Plaza." (No need to go into the details of this, right?)

Some more seconds pass, with Crawford Drew watching me closely and me shifting slightly in my chair. "Do you often get invited to luxury hotels by wealthy older men, Miss Blythe?" he finally enquires, raising one eyebrow.

I… _what_?

I blink. Stare. Blink again.

"Does your boyfriend give you expensive gifts?" he presses. "Does he give you money? Does he pay for your upkeep?"

Is he implying… ? Is he suggesting that I am…?

"Are you aware that prostitution is illegal in the United States, Miss Blythe?" Crawford Drew asks sharply.

Opening my mouth to answer, I find that I have no words. Never in my life has anyone ever accused me of… accused me of… I mean, surely he can't _mean_ that?

"Miss Blythe?"

"I'm not…" I stutter, "I'm not… I'm not…"

I feel cold. There's a lump in my throat. I might cry.

Crawford Drew shakes his head slightly and suddenly, the sympathetic smile is back. "Look, Miss Blythe, _I_ believe you. But there are concerns over your employment history and as long as you refuse our request to look at your phone, we must conclude that you are hiding something."

"I'm not hiding anything," I protest, but my voice is weak. "There's nothing wrong with my employment history. And I'm definitely not a… a…" Furiously, I blink away a tear.

"I apologise if I have upset you," remarks Crawford Drew, sounding so reasonable that it's almost hard to believe what he just accused me of, "but we can't allow you to enter the United States until this matter is cleared up."

"Let me go back, then," I suggest, feeling a spark of hope light within me. "Let me go back and I will sort it out from Canada. I mean, we _are_ still in Canada after all. It's easy."

But Crawford Drew gravely shakes his head. "Violating your visa conditions is a serious crime, Miss Blythe, and we can't let you go until we have clarified this issue." A beat. "Unless, of course, you admit to it in writing. We can let you go back then."

So, in other words, I am… stuck. No way forward and no way back.

"Admit to what?" I ask. "To being a… a _prostitute_?"

This is _madness_. And I'm absolutely at this guy's mercy. I am completely, totally, _utterly_ helpless.

"Admit to violating your visa conditions by working off-campus," Crawford Drew replies and I hate him for how level-headed he sounds.

"I have never worked off-campus," I protest. But there's no fight in me. I just feel stunned.

"We have information to the contrary." Opening his folder, he slides a newspaper over to me. "It says here that you work at a restaurant. This hardly looks like a college cafeteria."

Reaching out, I draw the paper closer to me. ' _From rags to riches? A first look into the posh restaurant Prince Kenneth's Rilla works at_ ' shouts the headline. Below it is a picture of me outside the building, one from the inside of the main dining room and… is that my _locker_?

"It's… it's wrong." I rub my forehead. _God_ , I am tired. "It's a university club. It's operated by NYU, for staffers and fellows and students and the like. It might look like off-campus work, but it's not."

"There's no mention of this in here," points out Crawford Drew and taps a finger on the paper."

"Well, then they got it wrong, didn't they?" I snap, feeling a sudden surge of anger rise within me. "Wouldn't be the first time either!"

Crawford Drew raises one eyebrow. "I would like to believe you, Miss Blythe, but we need proof. Do you have any papers on you that can prove that this is, in fact, on-campus employment?"

Yes, because I _always_ make a point to carry those with me on holiday.

I ball my hands into fists and bite my tongue to keep from saying something sarcastic, instead just silently shaking my head.

"In that case, we need someone to verify your account," adds Crawford Drew. "For which we need your phone."

He's got me well and truly cornered, doesn't he?

The entire situation is so bloody absurd that I almost want to laugh. Or else, it's just that I need to laugh so as not to cry.

I do neither. I just reach down for my bag and as I do it, I can see a flicker of triumph pass over the face of the man opposite me. He has won and he knows it.

Reluctantly, I unlock my phone and place it between us. "My boss's name is Maureen," I tell him. "And my brother-in-law might be able to get some of those papers from my apartment. His name is Dan."

Not that he really needs the phone for the numbers. After all, he could simply ask me to give those to him. In reality, I bet he wants to check my messages and diary for proof that I worked off-campus, so he can dangle it in front of me and get me to confess. Not that there _is_ anything to confess, of course. Maybe once he's checked the phone, he will see that, too.

"Very well, Miss Blythe. Thank you for your cooperation," smiles Crawford Drew, quite as if he didn't bully me into cooperating in the first place.

Taking my phone and his folder, he pushes his chair back and walks over to the door. "Please wait here."

As if I have any other option.

I watch him open the door and suddenly find myself saying his name. "Officer Drew?"

He turns around. "Miss Blythe?"

"If any of the numbers or messages on that phone find their way into tomorrow's newspaper… well, I won't need to think very hard about where they got them," I inform him, keeping my voice level.

Once more, he raises an eyebrow. "Are you threatening me, Miss Blythe?"

That makes me laugh, albeit humourlessly. "I am hardly in a position to threaten anyone, am I?"

"No," he agrees, while turning for the door again. Instead of walking through it, however, he hesitates for a moment and looks back at me over his shoulder.

"I am a professional, Miss Blythe. I'm not interested in your messages. The only thing that interests me is whether you violated your visa conditions," he tells me, before quickly turning to step through the door, closing it behind himself with a thud.

Maybe he's speaking the truth. Maybe he isn't. Maybe he's going to let me go back to New York. Maybe he isn't. At this point, there's nothing I can do about it either way.

With a sigh, I place my arms on the desk and settle my chin on them. Looks like I'm in for another long wait…

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Early Morning Rain' (written by Gordon Lightfoot, released by him in 1966)._

* * *

 _A/N:_ _Once more, many thanks to OriginalMcFishie for pitching in with the beta reading, as well as a special "thank you" to elizasky for helping me with this particular plotline._

* * *

 _ **Important A/N:**_  
 _ **I'm afraid Rilla isn't the only one who will be waiting for a while. I have holidays coming up and while I'm travelling, I'm going to take a little break from writing. Therefore, this story will go on temporary hiatus for a couple of weeks. Regular posting will resume on June 19th ( maybe June 12th if the muse strikes, but I'm not making any promises). See you all in June!**_


	32. A choice we're making

_New York City, USA  
January 2012_

 **A choice we're making**

I see the reporters the moment the car rounds the corner. There must be at least two dozen of them, maybe more. Which leaves me with only one conclusion.

 _They know._

Groaning softly, I hide my face in my hands for a moment.

"Are you alright?" asks Dan sympathetically and brings the car to a temporary halt a little distance from the reporters. They don't appear to have seen us yet.

I drop my hands and turn my head to look at him. "Yeah. It's fine."

It isn't fine, of course, but there's nothing Dan can do about it.

"Want me to walk you to the front door?" he offers.

Tempting as it sounds, I shake my head no anyway. "I'm okay. Just drive up as close as you get and I'll duck inside. That's probably the best way to get this over with quickly."

"Sure," nods Dan and re-starts the car. "Whatever you think is best." Thankfully, he's never been one to argue.

The reporters detect us as we slowly roll towards the apartment building and while they looked bored before, our arrival throws them into a sudden frenzy. There's a shout when the first one recognises me and they come running towards the car, surrounding it, their cameras flashing from all directions.

I keep my head lowered, staring down at my hands twisting in my lap, while Dan tries to navigate the car through the throng of photographers. We're inching forward slowly, but the photographers won't yield and they definitely won't clear the way. Instead, they start shouting, their voices dimmed by the rolled-up windows. Someone starts thumping on the top of the car, making me flinch.

Dan curses. Dan, who _never_ curses.

The photographers are blocking the view of the street and there are strange, colourful dots dancing in front of my eyes from the constant flashes. My ears ring from the shouting and the thumping and the faint clicking of the cameras. It always makes me think of a lot of very angry insects, the clicking.

"Sorry," I murmur, without raising my head. "Sorry for this. Sorry for… for…"

Dan cuts me off. "It's okay." There's a tenseness to his voice, but when I catch a quick sideways glance at him, I can see he's trying to smile for my benefit.

Fractions of a second later a photographer throws himself over the bonnet of the car and Dan slams on the brakes. I take a deep breath and clench my hands into fists.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to our place?" Dan asks, as we both stare at the man lying on the bonnet of the car, his camera pointed at us.

I shake my head slightly. "They'd follow me and I don't want them camping out in front of your place. Jake…"

It's all I need to say. Out of all of us, Jake hates the reporters the most, and of course Dan knows that. "Right," he agrees after a moment. "Then let's get you home."

How I am to make it from the car to the front door is still a mystery to me, but at least the photographer has now slid off the bonnet and Dan immediately starts driving a tad faster, before another one can think to take over his place.

"Can you take my bag with you?" I ask as we slowly roll forward. We put it in the boot of the car and there's absolutely no way I can get to it under these circumstances. There's nothing of vital importance in there anyway, so it's more sensible to let Dan keep it until I can retrieve it more easily.

"Of course," Dan nods. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries to navigate the car without running anyone over (which, if you ask me, would be regrettable only inasmuch as it could cause Dan trouble).

Another couple of meters later, he brings the car to a halt again. "This is as close as I can get. Your apartment is just over there," he explains, pointing past me at the window to my right. I turn my head to look, but can't see anything for photographers and cameras. The flashes make my head hurt.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dan asks, concern in his voice.

I'm not okay, actually. I'm very, very far away from being okay. But there's nothing to be done about this and no use dragging it out and further.

"Yes," I answer, trying to procure a brave smile for him. "I'm good. And thanks, by the way. For picking me up from the airport, I mean. And sorry. For, you know, making you wait yesterday and for… well, this." I raise a limp hand to indicate the chaos around us.

Dan shakes his head. "It's no problem." His expression shows that he still isn't convinced it's a good idea to drop me off here on my own (and frankly, neither am I), but he doesn't press. Instead, he leans over to give me a quick, one-armed hug. "Take care."

The flashing of the cameras suddenly intensifies. I don't even want to know how they're going to spin this.

"I will," I promise. "And thanks. For everything." I try for another smile, but it seems to have deserted me. So, I just lean down to reach for my handbag and hold it so tight my knuckles turn white from the force.

"Right," I mutter, more to myself than Dan. "Let's go."

When I open the car door, the sounds suddenly intensify, running together to create a single layer of noise. I know they're shouting at me (things like "arrested" and "illegal"), but I tune out their words, make them a part of the melee of sound that's crashing in on me.

The car door has knocked some of the photographers back a little, but there's a surge forward again, so I quickly swing my legs from the car and put them on the pavement, trying to appear more confident than I feel. Clutching my handbag with one hand and raising the other one to shield my face from the flashes, I try to push through the mass of bodies, but it's not much use. When I've managed a few steps, I notice some of them getting between me and the car and realise that they've got me well and truly surrounded.

There's a sour taste in my mouth that I belatedly realise to be panic. My ears ring and the flashes nearly blind me. Dimly, I am aware of a car horn honking, but there's little else Dan can do right now and I know it.

Biting my lip and keeping my head low, I just try to walk, towards that front door, towards where they can't follow me. (Some unfeeling part of my brain asks what makes me so sure that they won't force their way inside, but I make a point to ignore it. It's not exactly helpful when it comes to keeping my mounting panic under control.)

One of them thrusts his camera forward so much that it connects with my head, making me yelp in pain. There are tears in my eyes, but I blink them away furiously. Can't let them see me cry.

I take a deep breath, push forward a little more – when, suddenly, a path clears in front of my eyes. The photographers are backing off slightly, I realise. Not more than a few steps, but it's enough to give me a way through. Not caring what brought this to pass, I grasp the opportunity, quickly dashing through the opening they created. When, upon reaching the steps to my front door, I dare to raise my eyes slightly, I can't help a surprised gasp.

Mrs Weisz!

She stands in the doorway, positively _glaring_ at the photographers behind me and as I concentrate on her, I can make out her voice over the buzzing in my ears.

"You awful men!" she shouts, her accent sounding a little more pronounced than usual. "Harassing a young girl like that! You should be ashamed of yourself. _Ashamed_! Did no-one ever teach you any manners? Get away! Get back!"

They don't leave. Of course they don't. But her sudden appearance seems to have startled them enough to draw back a little, allowing me to quickly climb the stairs to the front door and slip past Mrs Weisz. When, at the last moment, I take a quick look back, I can see Dan standing next to the driver's side of the car, obviously having prepared to try and intervene himself. When he sees me looking, he raises a hand, but I don't react. Can't be seen to appear to be waving at reporters. Don't _want_ to be seen to appear to be waving at reporters!

The next moment, Mrs Weisz closes the door forcefully and the reporters are gone from my sight. Thank God.

"Are you alright, Marilla?" she asks, turning towards me with a concerned frown.

I let out a shaky breath. "Yes, I'm… I'm okay."

Truth to be told, I'm not _utterly_ sure I'm okay, and Mrs Weisz doesn't look convinced either.

"Come with me," she orders. "I will make you a good cup of coffee."

"Coffee sounds perfect." I breathe a sigh of relief, mustering a real smile for her benefit.

Mrs Weisz ushers me into her flat and towards the living room. As we cross through the hall, I see a pile of letters on a table that have my name on them. My address isn't public knowledge, but some people seem to have found where I live, so I'm getting more mail than usual. Most of it is harmless, but some letters have been quite unkind and there was even one trying to recruit me into some weird organisation with roman numerals in the name. Ken said to give him any letters that feel upsetting and to ignore the rest, which is probably sound advice.

I sit down on the sofa, while Mrs Weisz bustles off to make the promised coffee. I'm left in good company though, finding the sofa already occupied with a sleeping George. (He's mostly a city cat, George is, roaming the streets day and night, but he also likes his home comforts. And when I'm gone, he gets his dreamies and ear scratches at Mrs Weisz's.) Opening his eyes when he hears me, George lazily gets up and takes a moment to stretch luxuriously, before he climbs into my lap, swirls himself around twice and settles back in, his entire form lightly vibrating from the purr.

I burrow my fingers in his fur and lean back against the backrest, closing my eyes for a moment. _God_ , I'm exhausted. (There's also a persistent flashing on the inside of my eyelids, but I do my best to ignore it.) But it's quiet here and warm, George's purring calms me and I can feel my heartbeat slowing back to normal.

When Mrs Weisz finally comes in, I have almost nodded off, but the smell of the coffee helps in waking me up again. Grateful, I accept a cup from her.

"These are rude people," she declares as she sits down in an armchair. "To scare you like that."

"Yeah," I breathe, inhaling the coffee scent.

I mean, they _are_ rude, aren't they?

"Someone should give them a stern talking to," continues Mrs Weisz, looking quite indignant and leaving little doubt that, were someone to ask her, she'd definitely volunteer for the job.

And that's even though she doesn't even have the whole picture yet. She _must_ be wondering what this madness is about, right?

Taking a long sip of too hot coffee, I carefully place my cup on the side table next to me. My hands, now free, start to absentmindedly stroke George's back. (His fur, as befitting a part-time city cat, isn't all soft and silky, instead a little coarse and tangled, the change of texture giving me something to focus on.)

"About these reporters…" I begin slowly, looking at Mrs Weisz out of the corner of my eye.

She, however, has already jumped to the next subject. "What delayed you? Your little gentleman of a cat and I expected you home yesterday."

I sigh audibly. George purrs louder, as if in recognition of being spoken of.

"I got held up at the airport. The people at border police had convinced themselves that I was violating my visa conditions by waitressing someplace that's not connected to my university," I elaborate for Mrs Weisz, while moving a hand to massage George's ears.

"Are they correct?" asks Mrs Weisz, her look now one of faint disapproval.

It takes a moment before I realise that she disapproves of the idea of me potentially breaking the law but when I do, I vehemently shake my head. "No, they were absolutely wrong. The restaurant I work at is run by NYU and services staff and students, so the work there does in fact qualify as on-campus. Same goes for my previous work at one of the college cafeterias. My sister and brother-in-law had to get papers from my apartment and fax them over before they believed me though. And then, I had to wait until morning for the next flight."

They kept me in that room for hours, before someone finally came in, slapped my passport and papers down in front of me and welcomed me to the United States. (Never mind that we were _technically_ still in Canada.) My flight was by then long gone, and so was every other plane headed to New York for the day. Not daring to go back for fear of having to go through the entire process again the next day, I spent an uncomfortable night on the airport floor and caught the first morning flight.

The disapproval vanishes from Mrs Weisz's face in an instant, to be replaced by sympathy, and I'm glad. I'd hate to let her down.

"Poor girl." She reaches out to pat my hand. "You must be tired."

I am. I am tired and my neck hurts and my hair is greasy and my clothes need changing and I feel faintly nauseous. I want a shower and I want to sleep.

"You should get some sleep," decides Mrs Weisz in that moment, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You can come back downstairs later and tell me all about your family. I will make dinner."

"Yes," I agree, nodding slowly. "Yes, sleep sounds good. And dinner, too."

Mrs Weisz barely leaves me time to gulp down my coffee, before she bustles me out of the living-room and through her hall, doling out strict orders to get a good rest before showing myself downstairs again. (I briefly consider picking up the mail, but then leave it for later. I don't want to deal with this right now.)

George leads me upstairs, tail pointing at the ceiling. He turns to look at me every couple of steps, to make sure I'm still there. Once we have reached my apartment, he immediately runs over to the kitchenette and looks at me imploringly. "Meow."

Laughing, I walk over to give him some dry food, and he happily starts munching away. I watch him for a moment and feel myself relaxing. After the utter chaos of the last 24 hours, I finally feel somewhat safe again. Of course, I know that the photographers are still out there somewhere, but with my windows facing out to the back of the building, I can't see them, which makes it a little easier to ignore their presence.

Shrugging out of my coat (the one that raised all kinds of annoying pregnancy speculations around Christmas) and taking off my boots, I shuffle over to my bed and let myself fall backwards, coming to lie heavily on Mrs Lynde's quilt. Despite the coffee, sleep is beckoning, but I force myself to stay awake a little longer, pulling my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and pressing one of the speed dials.

It takes Ken just three rings to take the call. "Rilla? Did you get home alright, love?"

"Yes, I'm home," I confirm, letting out a long breath. "But I see you haven't changed your number yet. I told you that border police officer probably has it."

"Not going to," he replies and I can almost hear the shrug. "I had letters sent to Homeland Security and the US State Department. They'll make sure the information stays under wraps. If need be, they'll put pressure on that… _dastardly_ officer."

Uh-huh. Because he really, truly _can_ do that, can't he?

"But enough about that. Are _you_ okay? Did the reporters give you a hard time?" asks Ken, his voice concerned.

I open my mouth to assure him that I'm perfectly okay, just like I assured Dan and Mrs Weisz, but hesitate at the last moment. "It was… it was a bit scary, actually," I admit. "They surrounded our car and shouted and kept taking pictures… after I got out, I couldn't get through to the door at first. One of them bumped a camera into my head."

"Are you hurt?" he immediately wants to know.

Reaching up, I gingerly prod the side of my head. It feels a little tender, but that's it. "No, it's alright," I reassure Ken. "I'm not… nothing bad happened or anything. It was just… a bit overwhelming, especially after the night I had."

Once I had finally gotten through border security, grabbed some deep-fried airport food and managed to secure a seat on the 6:40am flight to New York (paying an arm and a leg for it, which I'm sure border police will not reimburse), I settled down on the floor in a corner of airport next to a rare power outlet and called Ken to update him. He was very concerned and very lovely, insisting that we stay on the phone until it was time for me to get up again. Both being tired, we didn't talk much, but he stayed on the line throughout the rest of his night. He even took me with him to his morning meetings, while I dozed fitfully on the airport floor. When I finally disconnected the call before boarding my flight, it had run over eight hours and I don't even want to know what it'll cost him.

"I can imagine," sighs Ken. "Look, if you want me, I can have Arlene shoot an unofficial warning to some of the editors. Make them call their reporters back. They shouldn't harass you like that."

The offer sounds tempting, especially after today, but I know that if he does it, it will make me look weak. It will let them know that they upset me, and I can feel myself bristle at the very thought. I'd hate to give them that kind of power and I'd hate even more for them to be aware that they have it.

"No, it's good," I decline, making a point to sound surer than I feel. "This will blow over and most of them will disappear afterwards, right? Once the story becomes an old hat, I mean."

I can sense Ken's hesitation, but after a moment, he agrees anyway. "Yes, it will blow over. Everything does at some point. We might even try and speed up that process, if you're interested?"

That makes me sit up a little. "I'm listening?"

"I could have Arlene leak the truth to a reporter we trust. Or, trust more than the others, anyway," Ken offers. "Tell them that yes, you got held up at the border, but that it was all a misunderstanding about who operated the restaurant you worked at and that it got cleared up nicely."

I hum thoughtfully. "What's in it for the reporter?"

"They get to be the first to print the truth," explains Ken. "You can't ever leak them a lie, because that would surely make them dig that much deeper the next time, but if we tell them the truth, there's something in it for everyone. We get it out there, they get the story first. We both win."

That's actually perfectly logical, isn't it? "Sure," I agree. "Go ahead and do it."

"Great." He sounds genuinely pleased. "I'll ask her to get in touch with someone. I'll be back in a moment."

I can hear a soft rustle as he places his phone down, then his faint footsteps walking away. Settling down more comfortably, I stretch out a hand to lure George over to the bed. Having finished his food, he obviously decides that some more cuddles are in order, and comes closer. Once here he jumps on the bed and makes a great show to curl himself up, cuddling into my side and resuming his purring.

While I wait for Ken to return, my mind circles back to a question that has been bugging me since yesterday, ever since I had a moment to recall and process the various conversations I had with the border police people. Because while I answered all their questions as truthfully as possible, there was one I only had a partial answer to.

I am no closer to figuring it out when Ken returns, but then, I suppose there's no way I _can_ figure this out without him, is there?

"Arlene is on the job," Ken announces after having picked up the receiver again.

"That's good to hear. Please thank her from me," I reply.

But I must have sounded preoccupied or otherwise off, because Ken picks up on it immediately. "Anything else the matter?"

Well, I guess that now's as good a time as any.

"It's just…" I take a deep breath. "When they asked me questions yesterday, they also asked whether I intended to work in the US after graduation. And while I know I don't want to stay here, especially not after last night, it got me thinking, because, well… I don't really _know_ where I'll be after graduation, right? I mean… look, we… we never really talked about what we'd do after I am done with college and that just had me wondering…" I break off, absent-mindedly treading the fingers of my right hand through George's fur.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "I'm actually glad you're mentioning this, because I've given this some thought myself."

"Oh?" I'm not sure I trust my voice to speak.

"Yes. I meant to talk to you about it, but what with the day you've had… I wasn't sure whether it was a good time," Ken continues, sounding a little unsure.

I swallow. "As good a time as any."

"In that case…" he hesitates a moment, perhaps to consider how to best express himself. "I'm not going to lie, Rilla. I hate this long distance-thing. I know it's the only possible way for now, but I hate going weeks without seeing you, I hate being reduced to calls and messages. I hate being half a world away while all this is happening to you."

"I hate it, too," I agree softly.

Another moment passes, before he speaks again. "So we agree on that. Good. In fact, great. I'm really glad that… that we agree. But you must know that I… that there's no way for me…" He breaks off without finishing his sentence and the unspoken words dangle between us for a moment.

(This is another conversation we should be having face-to-face, I know. But we make do as best as we can.)

"Your place is in England," I finish for him. I've known this for a long time, after all. "Which means that if we want to be together – _really_ be together, I mean – I'm going to have to… come to you."

"Would you?" he asks quietly. "I know it's a lot to ask."

It is. There's no denying that. Canada might not have been my primary home in years, but both in Geneva and in New York, I always had Joy and her family nearby. In England, there will only be him. But truth to be told, long distance was only ever going to work temporarily and losing him is not an option.

Besides, I've spent many nights pondering this, slowly getting used to the thought that England is the next logical step for me. And to be honest, I've grown to like the idea. There's nothing immediately calling me back to Canada and the last day has shown me viscerally that maybe it's time for the US and me to take a break. (And as for the reporters, they're going to follow me wherever, but with Ken by my side, I hope they will be easier to bear.) So, quite frankly, why _not_ England?

"Yes." My voice is barely above a whisper, so I try again, stronger this time. "Yes."

There's a loud, static-like sound over the line as he slowly lets go of a breath. "I was hoping you'd say that. Really, really hoping you would. And I've thought a lot about what's the best way to make this work."

"Tell me?" I ask.

"I talked to my father over the holidays. He agreed to let me go back to university for a master's degree. That would give us one year. I thought you could come here, get a graduate degree of your own and see whether you like England. If not, that's alright. You just go back after the year is over, and it won't disrupt your life any further. But if it's a yes… if it's a yes, we could take it from there."

I lie very still, clutching the phone to my ear, but my mind is whirring at top speed, processing what he just told me. And it takes me only a second or two to realise that his plan makes perfect sense. Because if I were to go to London and get a job, that would add a degree of permanency that would make things more difficult if I were to decide to go back. But a graduate degree comes with a natural end point. If, after that year, I wanted to go back, I could do it fairly easily. And if I wanted to stay…

"I thought we could get a place together while we study," Ken continues, seemingly a little unnerved by my silence. "It would allow us to finally properly be together, to really _live_ together. We could find out whether we can see it… working out."

For what comes after.

Quickly, I draw back from the thought. Because we aren't nearly there yet. For now, there's the next step to tackle. And whatever comes afterwards will come when it will.

"What do you say, love? You don't have to decide now, but do you want to consider it?" asks Ken after another moment of silence. His voice is gentle, but there's a slight catch as he speaks, betraying his feelings.

I take a deep breath and slowly let go of it again. "I don't need to think," I finally reply. "I want to do this. I want _us_ to do this." Then, with a breathless, happy, relieved little laugh, "England, here I come!"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'We Are the World' (written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie, released by USA for Africa in 1985)._

* * *

 _A/N: I'm back early! Writing went better than expected these past few days, so I hope this early return is a nice surprise for you. Of course, I also hope you enjoyed the chapter itself and would love to hear what you think of it. As all writers, I adore hearing from readers and cherish any and all reviews. Whether long-time follower or newcomer (or returning reader), signed-in or anon, long or short, praise or criticism - if you're reading, it would make me very happy if you could take a minute to leave your thoughts :)._


	33. By no special friend

_New York City, USA  
February 2012_

 **By no special friend**

Sighing, I rub my hands over my face. "Walk me through it again?"

"Sure," agrees Dan, who's sitting across from me at his and Joy's dining table. "What do you want to know?"

I drop my hands to look at him. "Maybe if I understood what their sodding problem is, this would be, you know, a little less confusing."

Dan takes a long sip of water. "US immigration is concerned that you looking after Jake and Izzie constitutes a form of employment you're not allowed to undertake under your visa conditions."

"Yeah," I nod slowly. "I got that. I don't see why they'd think that though. You never employed me or anything."

"Officially, we didn't. But we supported you financially and what with you looking after our children, it could be constructed to count as a form of employment. Illegal employment, might I add," explains Dan.

There's many a reason for why I didn't become a lawyer, but this is definitely one of them. These legal quibbles make my head hurt.

"If it is ruled to count as employment, it would also mean Joy and I could get in trouble for tax evasion," adds Dan. "We never paid social security costs for you."

"Of course you didn't!" I protest. "I was never your employee. I looked after Jake and Izzie because I wanted to. And you gave me some money because me looking after them saved you the money you'd otherwise have spent on a nanny or babysitter."

"Which some people might argue means that you actually _were_ our nanny," remarks Dan. He's outwardly calm, because Dan rarely is anything but calm, but I can see his left eyelid twitch slightly. It's a clear sign that he isn't feeling as calm as he pretends to be and it makes me nervous.

He takes another sip of water and I use the moment to mull over what he said. It takes me a second or two to realise what it was that heightened my uneasiness, but when I do, I sit up straighter. "You said 'ruled'. That it could be _ruled_ to count as employment. What do you mean by that?" I ask, watching him closely from the other side of the table.

Dan sighs. "If we can't convince them there's nothing to it, we'd have to fight it through the courts," he explains. "We could probably drag this out long enough for you to be able to finish your studies in May, but you'd get barred from entering the US for several years."

With an impatient gesture, I wave this aside. I don't have any plans to stay here anyway. Or, to be honest, ever come back. This entire mess has quite put me off this country.

"Never mind me. What would happen to Joy and you?" I want to know, though part of me is more than a little anxious to hear his answer.

Dan takes a long moment to answer. A disconcertingly long moment. "Well… tax evasion and facilitating visa fraud… it could get us into quite a bit of trouble."

Sitting back in my chair, I let out a puff of air. "And what with you being lawyers…"

I don't finish the sentence, but Dan nods anyway. "Quite."

This is a mess alright.

"What are we going to do?" I almost don't dare ask, but then rationalise that not knowing would probably be worse.

"We're going to argue that Joy and I gave you the money as a gift, totally unrelated to you looking after the children and without expecting anything in return," relays Dan. "And that you spend time with them because they're your niece and nephew and you like spending time with them."

"Which is true," I point out.

Dan smiles tiredly. "It is. But it's going to take more than that to convince a bunch of officials out for blood."

Closing my eyes tightly, I press the balls of my hands against my temples. "It wasn't even that much money," I mutter sullenly. "Barely enough to cover groceries."

Only belatedly do I realise how petulant that makes me sound, but Dan doesn't comment on it. "I don't think that's going to make much of a difference to them," he remarks instead.

Yeah. Somehow, I didn't think so either.

Silence falls between us, stretching out and expanding for several long seconds.

"Do you know it was a fashion piece?" I finally ask absently, staring at the table top. "That got all this rolling, I mean."

Dan makes a questioning sound, inviting me to elaborate further.

"It was a piece on my fashion that had the first picture of the university club I work at. Of course, that story then got picked up by a bigger paper and that's where the border police got the idea that I work off-campus. And that's what alerted them to me in the first place and made them dig. Which is how they came up with the nonsense of you and Joy employing me," I explain, lightly drumming my fingers against the table.

Because I might have thought they were through with me when they let me re-enter the US last month, but apparently, I couldn't have been more mistaken. They only let me back in so they could sniff around my life some more. With copious assistance from the press of course, because what else is new?

"It's how it is," replies Dan with a sigh. "We should probably have foreseen it anyway. It was always a potentially questionable arrangement."

Still. It was the press that turned this into a problem, wasn't it?

I just want to point that out to Dan, when I hear a key being turned in the lock of the front door. Both Dan and I turn to look into the direction of the hall and moments later, Joy appears in the doorway to the dining room.

"Hey Joy," I greet her tiredly.

"Hello darling," adds Dan.

But Joy doesn't answer. Still in coat and shoes, clutching her handbag to her, she lets herself fall on the chair closest to her. But she doesn't react to Dan or me. In fact I'm not sure she has noticed us at all. She looks… all strange. Her face is totally blank, her eyes staring ahead.

It makes me shiver involuntarily.

"Joy? Darling?" asks Dan cautiously, reaching out to cover one of her hands with his own.

That startles her into action. Turning her head abruptly, she stares as him, quite as if she has never seen him before.

For a second, no-one even breathes.

"They fired me." Her voice is utterly toneless, devoid of any feelings.

Dan looks stricken. The gasp, I belatedly realise, came from me.

"They… what?" I stutter.

"They fired me," repeats Joy, still in that creepy, emotionless voice.

I blink, trying to process this. "But… _why_? Why would they do that?"

Joy doesn't say anything, having apparently fallen back into her stupor. But Dan seems to be quicker on the uptake than I.

"Because of the accusations," he answers in her stead, sounding resigned. "Tax evasion, retaining illegal employees, facilitating visa fraud…"

But… but…

"But none of that is _proven,_ " I argue, feeling helpless. "You said yourself you'd fight it through the courts!"

I look from Joy to him, pleadingly, hoping he can reassure me that it's all just a stupid misunderstanding. But Dan slowly shakes his head. "It looks bad. Even if we all get proven innocent, the accusation will always hang above her. And a law firm such as that one… they're not going to risk even the slightest rumour of one of their lawyers being involved in something illegal."

Gaping at him, I search for words. But I have none. This is just too awful to process.

At the head of the table, Joy starts moving, extracting her left hand from under her husband's and placing both on the table top, fingers carefully splayed out. Both Dan and I immediately turn to look at her, but she keeps her gaze fixed on her hands.

"Darling?" asks Dan carefully. I don't dare speak, or maybe I just don't have anything to say.

Slowly, Joy raises her head, looks first at Dan, then over at me. Her face is blank and I can't tell what she's thinking, which scares me. I've never known Joy to be shy about showing her feelings.

"Can you leave, please?"

It takes me a moment to realise that Joy is speaking to me. And another moment to process that she actually asked me to leave.

I don't think Joy has _ever_ asked me to leave.

Too dumbstruck to move, I remain sitting in my chair for a moment longer, my brain whirling out of control. Joy stares at me with that unnerving blank expression on her face.

Dan's quicker to react than I am. "Joy, darling…" his voice is almost pleading. "Shouldn't we talk about this?"

"I don't want to talk," comes her reply, terribly composed. "I need you to be quiet and her to be gone."

"This isn't her fault," Dan points out cautiously. "We should have seen this coming."

Very slowly, Joy turns her gaze on him. "But no-one would have been interested in us. No-one would have found out."

"The press…" begins Dan.

Joy cuts across him. "Is only interested in her because of who she's dating. Which _was_ her choice."

I try to speak and find I have no air. My throat feels constricted, my chest heavy. This can't be happening.

"Joy…" I whisper.

She looks back at me, considers me for a long, long moment. "Please. Just leave."

The mask of blankness is starting to slip. But there's no fury or anger beneath it, just a bone-deep weariness, which is somehow worse. Shouting, I could take. It's this quietness that scares me.

Looking to Dan for help, I find him slowly shaking his head. There's pity in his eyes, though whether for Joy or me or both of us, I can't tell. "Maybe it's best if you do leave for the evening," he suggests gently. "You have to go to work anyway, don't you?"

(Joy's face contorts at his words and I can't bear to look.)

At my tentative nod, Dan slides his chair back. "So, go to work. We can talk tomorrow. I'll walk you to the door."

With nothing left to do and my sister's gaze resolutely directed the other way, I slowly get up as well and start walking towards the hall. As I pass Joy, I stretch out a hand to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away without even looking at me and I drop my hand again.

"Rilla?" asks Dan, holding the door for me.

I hesitate next to Joy for a moment longer, trying to think of something to say, but all my words must be inadequate, so I remain silent. Shuffling over to Dan, I slip past him into the hall and just see the door to Jake's bedroom close. So he heard. Just great.

Turning to look at Dan, I find him nodding slightly. "I'll talk to him," he promises quietly. "To her, too. I'm sure she doesn't mean it. She's just hurt. Give her a few days. It'll be alright."

I'm not so sure about that, to be honest, but, eager for reassurance, I allow his words to wash over me and accept the brief hug he gives me after we've reached the door.

"Take care," says Dan by way of a goodbye.

I nod. I still feel strangely numb. "You, too." Though I'm not sure what he's supposed to take care about. "And thanks." He's been nothing short of lovely, after all. "And sorry." This, most of all.

"It's alright," promises Dan, giving me a reassuring smile. Try as I might, I don't manage a one back.

Turning, I take a step towards the stairs, but then stop and look back at him. "They will re-hire her, won't they? Once this is all cleared up. Surely, they must take her back then. Right?"

There's a note of desperation in my voice that Dan can't miss. But for all his sympathy, he's not one to lie and he doesn't now. Instead, he just sadly shakes his head. "I don't think so, Rilla. I really don't think so."

"That's not fair," I choke out.

"No. No, it isn't," agrees Dan with a sigh, before turning to look back into the flat. "I need to get back to her. Goodbye, Rilla."

"Bye," I whisper and watch as he softly closes the door.

Unshed tears blurring my vision, I stumble down the chairs and out of the house. My mind is in upheaval and there's only one thought I can grasp. Joy was fired. Joy. Fired. Brilliant, clever, hard-working Joy. Fired from the job she worked so hard to excel at. And all that because of… because of…because of me. Because of my relationship.

It's too much to wrap my head around.

At least there are no reporters camping in front of the house, though I know they'll be waiting at the restaurant. Ever since I returned to work after my Christmas break, they've always seemed to be there when I'm scheduled to work. I don't know how they do it, really, but am too preoccupied to think about it anyway. For now, I am just glad not to have their cameras shoved in my face just yet, hoping that the walk through the brisk New York Winter might be enough to clear my head and cool my heated face.

No such luck, of course.

I'm still all worked up when I arrive at the restaurant. My eyes feel puffy and my nose is runny and it's not just because of the cold. And if I harboured any hope of being able to evade any reporters in my state, it is dashed the moment I round the street corner. They're out in full force again, which means that they know something is up, or at least that they _think_ there is.

For a moment, I hesitate, hovering on the brink between privacy and detection, but before I can make up my mind to turn back and just _leave_ , they have discovered me.

"Rilla!" shouts the first one, rushing towards me. His camera goes click, click, click.

"Is it true that you were charged with visa fraud?" cries another one.

"Will your sister be prosecuted for illegally employing you?" yells a third one.

The flashing of the cameras is always so much brighter in the dark of the evening and I flinch away by instinct. But whichever way I turn, there's flashes everywhere. Flash, flash, flash. Cameras on all sides of me. And ringing in my ears is their incessant clicking, only partly drowned out by the shouted questions.

Click, click, click.

Flash, flash, flash.

Raising my arms, I shield my face from the glare of attention, using one hand to blindly swat at anything in my way, trying to clear a path forward. In some distant part of my mind there's a reasonable voice, reminding me that I'm supposed to stay composed and pleasant and amiable, but I am so _done_ with being good, so _done_ with behaving. I just want them to _leave_.

"Hey, Rilla! Why the hiding?"

"Look who's suddenly pretending to be all shy!"

"Thought going to bed with a prince would give you preferential treatment, didn't you?"

"Got to face the music sometime, sweetheart."

There's something nasty about how they speak, something that is sneering and gloating and that makes my blood boil. Because if they had just stayed out of my life, Joy would never have lost her job and if she hadn't lost her job, she wouldn't have had a reason to look all pale and blank-faced and unsettling. If only…

"Leave me _alone_!" I snap, lowering my arms to glare at the journalists surrounding me. "Leave. Me. Alone!"

Click, click, click, go the cameras. Flash, flash, flash.

"This is none of your business. This is my life. My family. You don't get to do that to my family. You have no _right_ –" But I can't finish the sentence.

Chocking on my words, on my anger, on my _helplessness_ , I stare at the cameras that click and the reporters that shout and realise that it doesn't matter whether they have any right to do this. They're doing it anyway, no matter how many lives they ruin in the process. Because there's money to be had and as long as that's the case, they aren't going anywhere and they aren't going to leave us alone. Common decency be damned.

Reaching forward, I use my arms and elbows to shove and push at anyone or anything in my path, caring little who I might hit or what it might look like or how they might think of me. Because tomorrow's headline is already written and besides, what did playing nice ever bring me anyway?

Still, the cameras click and the cameras flash.

Much as I try to ignore them, I can also hear the questions still being shouted, gleeful now at having gotten a reaction out of me, and mocking, to try and provoke me into reacting again. That I don't give them the satisfaction has less to do with self-control and much more to do with the fact that I can't seem to speak around the lump in my throat.

"Get lost," I just about manage, more of an angry hiss than anything else. That they caught it anyhow, I know because the clicking immediately intensifies.

Blinking furiously against the flashing light and the coloured spots dancing in front of my eyes, I finally spy the back entry to the restaurant behind a vaguely familiar looking reporter. My eyes fixed on the door, I make a finally push, ducking beneath a camera hovering too near my head, and get my fingertips on the handle. In there, I know I will be safe, because apparently, it's alright to harass me and alright to bother my family, but trespassing on NYU property is a step too far even for this mob.

There's a collective groan of disappointment as I slip through the door and another question shouted after me, asking whether I expect to be doing jail time. (It is in this moment that I realise with painful clarity that Dan never specified quite what anyone awaits us if our version isn't accepted as fact, and it makes my blood run cold.)

Slamming the door shut behind me, I let myself fall backwards against the wall, head thrown back and eyes closed, trying to catch my breath.

I _can't_ –

"Rilla?" It's Carolina's familiar voice speaking, sounding both kind and worried, and though that's like balm to me, it still takes me far too long to open my eyes and look at her.

"Quite the commotion today," she adds with a sympathetic smile when she notices me looking at her.

"Yeah," I nod, feeling weary. "Quite."

Of course, nothing of this is new to my co-workers, just as it has become a regular occurrence to my fellow students and most especially my neighbours. Mrs Weisz shouting them down didn't keep the reporters away from my apartment house for longer than thirty seconds and while no-one has complained to me directly, I've noticed a lot more disapproving glances when I pass my other neighbours on the staircase.

"I'm sorry to bother you with this when you just got in, but there are people asking for you in the main room," remarks Carolina and at least she _does_ truly look sorry about it.

This, too, is pretty routine by now. I don't know quite why it gives people a kick to be served by me – or rather, by the prince's girlfriend, because to them, I as a person couldn't matter less – but it definitely does. Maureen is secretly rather pleased at the increase in customers, but it makes my skin crawl in the most uncomfortable way. In their own way, these people are as creepy as the reporters out there (and most of the time they don't even tip well).

"I'll just go change," I sigh.

Carolina nods. "I'll tell them you'll just be a minute."

"At least have the decency to hurry," snaps Bridget, rushing past us on her way to the kitchen and glaring at me. "You're already late and having them ask for you constantly is such a bore."

Yeah, I bet it is.

With a forced half-smile for Carolina and a dirty look at Bridget's back, I push off the wall and shuffle into the direction of the staff room. Expecting to find it empty, I am instead greeted by the sight of Tracy tying her shoelaces and while there's little that could actually _raise_ my mood right now, seeing her definitely doesn't make me feel worse either.

"Hey Trace," I greet as I walk over to my locker.

Tracy straightens and smiles at me. "Hello Rilla." Then, peering closer at me, "Are you ok?"

"Bridget hissed at me for being late, which I was only because I got accosted by a mob of photographers trying to provoke me into screaming at them. So…" I shrug, trying to appear more unconcerned than I feel. "Just another day at the office, right?"

"I'm sorry to hear that," replies Tracy, her eyes full of sympathy.

Turning towards my locker, I reach for the combination lock. "The reporters always seem to know when I'm scheduled for a shift here," I add as I move the discs into the right sequence. "I don't know how they do it, but no matter when I arrive, they're already waiting. In the beginning, I thought they just have a few of them camp out here on the off-chance that I show up, but it's the same guys also waiting outside my apartment every morning, which means they move here on purpose when they know I have a shift that day."

I pull the locker door open and toss my bag inside. "And at risk of sounding paranoid, I sometimes can't help wondering whether it's that they know about my shifts because someone tells them or gives them my schedule or something. Someone from the staff, I mean. From the inside. I know it sounds crazy, but someone also gave them that picture of my locker, right?"

The picture of my locker, printed in the article that kicked off this entire mess in the first place. The article that got the people at border control to be all suspicious, which led to US immigration sniffing around, which led to Joy's firing.

The door of the locker gently swings shut of its own accord, hitting my elbow as it does. It doesn't hurt much, but when I fling the door open again, I do so with much more force than necessary.

"It was probably Bridget," I announce, glaring at the locker for good measure. "I really wouldn't put it past her. She's just so… unpleasant all the time."

Turning my head, I look at Tracy over my shoulder, though whether I want her to back me up on my suspicions about Bridget or tell me that I'm imagining conspiracies where there are none, I can't really say. Either way, Tracy just stands there, biting her lip, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. She isn't looking at me. In fact, she seems to make very, very _sure_ not to look at me.

Which is odd. Her entire stance is odd. So is her expression. I can't quite put my finger on it, but –

But.

Narrowing my eyes, I turn to face her fully. "Tracy?" I ask slowly.

Surely I can't be…?

"Tracy?"

With an abrupt movement, she raises her hands to hide her face. When she speaks, her voice is muffled, but it still hits me like a lightning bolt. "It was Shawn's idea. We've wanted to go on a vacation for so long, but we could get never the money together and he thought… he knew that you and I worked together and one day, he brought this reporter home. Such a polite man and he just counted the money out right there on kitchen table. Didn't ask for much either. Just some pictures from inside the restaurant and your work schedule for the next few weeks. It seemed so harmless and Shawn was so excited to finally be able to take me on holiday…"

Face still hidden, she is overcome by sobs, unable to speak further.

I stand very still, just looking at her, trying to organise my thoughts into something resembling order.

Tracy.

It was _Tracy_.

Tracy, who betrayed me to the paparazzi.

Not Bridget with her general nastiness, or Maureen, who is so quietly pleased that my notoriety is bringing in the customers, or one of the ever-changing kitchen helps looking for a quick buck.

Tracy.

"You sold me out," I finally manage. (In a corner of my mind, I can't help noticing that I sound exactly like Joy did. All toneless and weird.) "You and your lowlife husband sold me out."

"He's not a – not a – lowlife," protests Tracy through her tears, her voice shaking and wavering.

"Yes he is and the sooner you finally realise that the better," I snap. The weird calm is gone as fast as it came. Instead, I feel all the anger within me boiling to the surface.

Lowering her hands, Tracy looks like she wants to say something, but I cut right across her. "In fact, lowlife is far too good an expression for him. You're the only one who can't see it and God knows I feel sorry for you, but –" I take a deep breath, but it does little to calm me. "You're my friend, Tracy. I _trusted_ you. And you have nothing better to do than to go and betray me just to please _him_?"

I wait for her to speak, to say something – _anything_ , really – but she just stands there, looking at me, tears running down her face. There's something so utterly defeated about her that I can't even be truly mad. Instead, I suddenly feel very, very tired.

"My sister lost her job over this," I tell her, rubbing my hands over my face. "Over something that started with you wanting to make some quick and 'harmless' money."

At least that gets a reaction out of her. "I didn't know –" she chokes. "I didn't want –"

"Didn't want this to happen? Yeah, yeah." I wave her remark aside. "But it happened anyway."

Not waiting for another reply, I turn back to my locker and yank my bag out of it, before slamming the door shut. The combination lock closes with a single click.

"What are you doing?" asks Tracy in what is little over a whisper.

"Leaving," I tell her grimly without turning around. "I'm leaving. And if Bridget or Maureen or any of those vultures over in the dining room have anything to say about that, you can tell them I don't give a _damn_ what they think."

Because if it's between Tracy and the mob of reporters out there, the reporters suddenly seem like the preferable option. At least I expect them to only want my worst.

Moving past Tracy, who watches me through wide and watery eyes, I stomp over to the door. It is only at the last moment, my hand already on the handle, that I hesitate. Turning my head sideways a little, so I can just see her out of the corner of my eye, I ask, "Just tell me… did you go on that vacation?"

Tracy swallows visibly. "We… we wanted to, but then Shawn went out with a few of his friends and naturally, he invited them for a beer and…"

And then they drank all the money away. Of course.

"Yes," I reply quietly. "That's what I thought."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it. In the end, I laugh simply so as not to cry.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Restless Farewell' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1964)._

* * *

 _To Guest:_  
 _Hello and thank you for being in touch! I'm glad you agree with their decision. There's still a bit of time until they can turn it into reality, but I promise we're getting there. And yes, a bonnet is a car hood. I think one is the British term, the other American? Not being a native speaker, I sometimes struggle to stick with one variant of English. I apologise if it was confusing :)._


	34. Ain't no-one keeping score

_New York City, USA  
February 2012_

 **Ain't no-one keeping score**

"Look, all I'm saying is that you're not making this any easier for yourself," Ken clarifies.

I scowl at him (or rather, at the image of him on my computer screen). "That's easy for _you_ to say, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he immediately asks.

Isn't it obvious? "You have your protection people surrounding you, keeping the paps away."

"It's not their job to shield me from reporters," he points out. He was very sympathetic when I told him about Joy and Tracy earlier, but now I detect a sliver of impatience in his voice.

"No. It's their job to keep _everyone_ at a distance. And don't tell me that doesn't also include reporters," I reply, pursing my lips.

Ken frowns. "I offered to contact the editors and ask them to have the pack back off a bit," he reminds, changing tracks.

That actually makes me laugh, but it's a curt, humourless one. "Would it _work_?"

"Not if you give them reasons to stick close to you." He rubs a hand over his face. "I mean, God, Rilla, I get that they can be annoying, but to snap and swat at them? That was extremely ill-advised."

"And look who I've been getting my advice from," I mutter darkly.

Ken choses to ignore it. "From where they stand, that video is pure gold. All I'm asking is that you try and not hand-deliver it to them."

"And all _I'm_ saying is that it isn't as easy as you make it out to be," I snap.

I've seen the video, of course. There are pictures, too, but the video is worse. And yes, it does look bad. I know it does. But he wasn't _there_ last night, was he? He doesn't know what it was like.

"They cut it to make me look bad," I tell him defensively. "They cut out all the bits where they're shouting nasty things at me, to make it look like I just blew up at them for no reason."

"You know that and I know that," agrees Ken. "But the majority of people out there don't. They believe what they see and what they see is that video. A video which doesn't show you at your best."

"And my behaviour reflects badly on _you_ , is what you're saying?" I ask sarcastically.

He narrows his eyes. "I didn't say that."

"Why else would anyone care what 'people' think of me?" Raising both hands, I put air quotes around the word 'people'. "So what if I'm not keeping sweet every single bloody time? I'm _nobody_. It doesn't affect any of them what I do. I don't even know why they _care_."

" _I_ care because it makes things harder for you," Ken replies. "It's simple logic. The more material you give them, the more they're going to follow you. And last night, you gave them plenty."

"Well, _excuse me_? They were shouting and pushing and saying things and –" I break off, breathing heavily.

"They were trying to get a rise out of you," he finishes in my stead. "It's what they do. Provoke someone until they get a reaction."

My scowl turns into a glare. "I _know_ they do that!"

"Then why did you react to them?" Ken wants to know. "Why not just ignore them?"

"Why did I…?" I repeat, incredulous. "Because they made Joy lose her job, that's why! I can't just _ignore_ that!"

"From what I gather, Joy had rather a lot to do with that herself. That arrangement was always questionable and both she and her husband should have known it. They're the lawyers, after all," he reasons, sounding maddeningly logical.

Jutting my chin forwards, I look down my nose at the screen. "But if it weren't for those reporters, no-one would ever have found out about it!"

"And if it weren't for me, the reporters wouldn't be interested in you at all," adds Ken, voice suddenly low and controlled.

Abruptly, I sit up straighter. "Now you're putting words in my mouth."

But of course, I've had the thought myself. Or rather, Joy had it for me. I mean, I still think it's mostly the fault of those reporters and their utter lack of respect for personal boundaries, but whichever way you turn it, if I hadn't spilled that wine all those months back…

With a loud, jingling sound, my phone starts ringing, making me jump.

Avoiding looking at Ken, I clamber over to the other side of the bed and grab it. When I see the caller ID, my heart suddenly beats in my throat.

Joy.

"I've got to take this," I tell Ken distractedly, my fingers already hovering over the phone, ready to accept the call.

He sighs. "Rilla…"

But I cut him short. "Talk later, alright?" Without giving him a chance to reply, I quickly shut my laptop, effectively ending our conversation. (And with an ocean between us, there's nothing he can do about it either.)

Taking a deep breath, I cautiously raise the phone to my ear. "Joy?"

"I'm downstairs," comes my sister's voice. "Can I come up?"

(I had Dan disconnect my doorbell back in November when it all began. Three days of having reporters ring at all times of the day – and sometimes, night – was enough to shoot my nerves nearly to pieces, so anyone wanting to see me has to either call my phone or get past Mrs Weisz.)

"Yes. Of course. Right away." I almost fall over my own feet in my scramble to buzz her in as quickly as possible. When I hold up the phone again, she has disconnected the call, so I'm left standing by the open apartment door, listening to her footsteps becoming louder and failing to get my heart to slow down.

When I talked to Mum at length last night, she told me to give Joy some time and that she'd come around. But I don't know if half a day is enough of time and, frankly, I have no idea what she wants.

But neither do I have time to prepare myself, because far too quickly, Joy's gold-and-copper head appears at the bottom of the uppermost staircase and I feel my hands clench in nervousness.

"It's mayhem out there," she declares when she has reached me. It's not a greeting, but it might be a peace offering and I'm willing to take whatever she's ready to give.

"I can imagine," I mutter, a sinking feeling in my stomach as I think of the mob of reporters likely gathered outside the house.

"Is it because of that video? I saw it." As she speaks, she angles her body towards the doorway, making me step back automatically to let her in.

Closing the door behind her, I watch her walk into the middle of the room and turn on her own axis once. Not knowing what to do with myself, I awkwardly shove my hands into the pockets of my skirt and lean back against the door for support.

"Ken already chided me for giving in to the reporters' baiting," I tell Joy, mostly because it's the first thought coming to my mind.

"Did he?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Well, idiot."

That draws a surprised laugh from me. "You don't think he has a point?"

Joy seems to weigh this for a moment. " _I_ think," she finally answers slowly, "that he doesn't know what he's talking about. I mean, he's always surrounded by his security detail, isn't he? They never harass him the way they do you."

"I probably should have kept my cool anyway," I cautiously point out.

"You should have," nods Joy, "but that's quite a bit easier said than done. I mean, I just had the singular experience of having to get through them. It's like running a gauntlet. Shouting at them was the least I wanted to do."

"It can definitely be trying, the way they –," I stop myself, shaking my head slightly. "But I shouldn't complain. I chose this, after all."

Shifting away from the door, I look quickly over at Joy, only to find her gazing at me, her eyes alert and searching. "No, you didn't," she says after a long moment.

"I didn't?" I repeat, unsure what she means by this.

"You didn't choose this," she affirms. "You fell in love with a man. You didn't choose the mess that came attached to it."

"Should have foreseen it," I murmur, though quite why I'm arguing her point is beyond even me.

Joy smiles softly. "Yes. But then, since when have you ever been good at planning?"

That gets me to look up, feeling a little indignant. "I'm plenty good at planning! You should see all the plans I made to help Betty with her wedding!"

"You're good at planning parties," agrees Joy, still with that fond little smile, "but you're decidedly not good at planning life."

I make a little hmpf-ing sound, to indicate that I do resent this very much, but it's not like I can convincingly argue _this_ point. I can whip up a birthday party at the shortest of notices, but when it comes to life, I've always preferred just to see where it takes me next.

Much more importantly though, Joy is _smiling_ and after last night, I'd take any amount of teasing, so long as it stays that way.

As I watch her, Joy turns and strolls over towards my little kitchen, where she absently riffles through my cupboards and my fridge, finally coming up with a half-eaten chocolate bar. "May I?" she asks, holding up the chocolate for me to see.

"Sure," I nod, but it's superfluous anyway. I'm not likely to deny her anything at the moment and we both know it. When I left her place last night, I wasn't sure she'd ever talk to me again, so to have her standing in my kitchen now, ribbing me and eating my chocolate…

"Are you still mad at me?" I blurt out.

Joy pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth and considers me, head cocked to the side. "Not on balance, no."

And what's _that_ supposed to mean?

My face must have given away my confusion, for Joy deigns to explain, "Part of me _is_ mad. The childish, irrational part that thinks it's unfair that just because of who you're in a relationship with, I have problems I wouldn't have otherwise."

"It is unfair," I interrupt quietly.

She nods. "Yes, it is. And yes, part of me is mad at you for bringing all of us into this situation. The childish part, as I said. But the more grown up part realises that this is beyond your control as well. This is happening to you as much as it's happening to the rest of us."

"You lost your job, Joy," I remind. "That's… that's much worse than some guys with long lenses photographing me while I buy an avocado."

I can see Joy swallow heavily at my words, but she quickly masks it by eating another piece of chocolate. "No argument there," she agrees. "And I'm not going to lie to you. After how hard I worked for this… it bloody hurts. I'm not even sure it has fully settled in yet and it already… let's just say that it's bad. I'm not going to pretend it's not."

Inside my skirt pockets, my hands clench into helpless fists.

"But Dan, maddening as he is, has a point when he says that we knew our arrangement was potentially problematic," Joy continues. "He and I both did and we both thought we'd get away with it. If we had been upfront about it and stuck to the rules, we wouldn't be in this mess."

She's not looking at me, but while she speaks, her posture slightly changes as shoulders move backwards and her chin rises up. She's in lawyer mode, I realise, because that's the only way she can be here right now. Her coming to see me was her logical side winning out against the emotional one. She's still mad and she's still hurt and in some way, she still blames me. That she's standing in front of me is solely because logic told her to.

"They wouldn't have found out," I point out carefully. "No-one would have been interested in us, if I weren't…"

"Maybe, maybe not," Joy replies briskly. "But if we hadn't tried to bend the rules in the first place, there wouldn't have been anything to find out."

She smoothes out the tin foil over what remains of the chocolate bar and takes a moment to place it back into the fridge. Then, sharply, she looks up at me. "Besides, you're also in more trouble than just being papped while buying avocados. Did Dan explain it to you?"

"They could throw me out. Ban me from coming back." I just keep myself from shrugging.

It seems so insignificant compared to what Joy and Dan are up against. In three months, I'll be gone anyway, and Dan said they're unlikely to resolve this case before then. And even _if_ they manage to chuck me out sooner… well, Mum isn't a professor at Dalhousie for nothing. I'm sure she could wangle some arrangement that would allow me to finish my degree in Halifax.

"I'm glad to see how well you're taking this." There's the tiniest hint of sarcasm in Joy's voice, her left eyebrow creeping up the slightest bit.

But instead of explaining myself, I chose to return to practicalities. "What are you – _we_ – going to do now?"

A second of hesitation, but then Joy lets go of a long breath, her posture relaxing. "Dan and I saw a lawyer this morning. A specialist. She reckons we might get away with saying that you were just spending time with the kids because you wanted to and the money we gave you was a gift among family. It's still fishy, but it could work."

"Good," I nod, not knowing what else to say.

"Of course, we can't be seen to be doing anything untoward from now on. No-one can stop you from seeing Jake and Izzie, but there can't be any money changing hands," Joy adds. "I already talked to Mum and Dad and they're increasing your monthly allowance to make up for it. It's just for three months anyway."

And a good thing that is, too, because I'm quite sure that I also managed to lose my real, legal job. Maureen wasn't very happy that I ditched work last night and she _definitely_ wasn't happy that, upon her calling me to order me back, I told her to go to hell. So… I'm not too confident that income source hasn't also dried up.

Not that I intend to bother Joy with that information. Instead, I cast a quick look her way and gather up my courage to ask, "Did the lawyer also say anything about your job? Will you get it back, when…"

Joy freezes. The shake of her head is almost imperceptible, but it feels like a punch to the gut.

I take a deep breath. "I'm so sorry about that, Joy," I murmur, not knowing what else to say. "If there's anything I can do…"

But again, she shakes her head. "There isn't anything. It is the way it is." Her jaw is set and her eyes fixed at some point in the mid-distance. I can see how much she's fighting to keep her composure.

I am saved from having to think of something else to say, when, for the second time today, my phone rings.

Reaching out to take it, I see Mrs Weisz' name on the caller ID and raise a finger to signal to Joy that I need to take this. Just last week Mrs Weisz fell in her kitchen and couldn't get up by herself. Not wanting to bother anyone, she stayed on the floor until I dropped by some two hours later. After which I gave her _express_ instructions to immediately call me if it ever happens again.

"Mrs Weisz? Are you alright?" I ask after accepting the call.

"I'm feeling fine, Marilla. Thank you," is her answer and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"However," she adds and I tense again, "there's a friend of yours downstairs and she doesn't seem to be feeling very good."

Suppressing a sigh, I shake my head lightly. "Mrs Weisz, you know that my friends have my phone number. They can just call me."

More than once, I've had people turning up at the front door of the house, claiming to be a friend or a relative or once, memorably, my fifth grade music teacher. (Never mind that I didn't even _take_ music in fifth grade!) Each and every one of them was just an imposter trying to wheedle their way into inside the house to presumably take a picture of the stairs or something.

"I think this one is too shy to call you," opinions Mrs Weisz. "She seems very upset."

Could it be…?

"What's her name?" I ask, somewhat warily. Joy, I notice absently, is watching me curiously, obviously having taken the opportunity to pull herself together again.

Mrs Weisz seems to pass the question on, for her voice becomes muffled. "What's your name again, dear?" After three or four seconds, she returns to the phone to answer, "Her name is Tracy."

Thought so.

I open my mouth to reply, but then find myself closing it without having uttered a sound. Do I even _want_ to see Tracy?

"Marilla?" Mrs Weisz sounds both impatient and a little disapproving at my lack of a reaction.

"I might not be up for seeing her today," I carefully intone.

Mrs Weisz clucks her tongue, having obviously arrived at fully disappointed by now. "And why would that be?"

"She… she hasn't been a very good friend recently." As I speak, I notice Joy looking over to me, surprise now written on her face.

"And you have always been a good friend to all of your friends?" Mrs Weisz wants to know, her voice clipped and sharpish.

"No…" I answer slowly. "But I –"

She talks right over me. "So, you can't be pointing fingers."

I… I might? I mean, selling your friend out to the press is surely up there when it comes to friendship transgressions, isn't it?

When I don't answer, Mrs Weisz heaves a sigh. "See the poor girl, Marilla. She is very distressed."

Pursing my lips, but unable to deny a direct request from Mrs Weisz, I answer with a somewhat sullen, "Okay. Send her up."

"Good girl," praises Mrs Weisz, now decidedly pleased. "Be nice to her."

Well, I'm not making any promises.

Saying goodbye to Mrs Weisz and tossing the phone back on my bed, I move over to open the door again. "Tracy is coming up," I explain to Joy. "She's the one who sold my work schedule to the press. Which, I might add, instigated this entire mess."

A moment passes as Joy processes this, before I can hear her whistle softly. "'Not a good friend' is one way of putting it."

See? That's what I said!

"She also took a picture of my locker and sold it on," I add as an afterthought. "They put it on the front page."

When I look over my shoulder, I can see Joy shaking her head. "Your life is complete madness, did you know that?" she enquires.

Well, duh.

For the next few moments, we both remain silent, listening to Tracy's footsteps on the stairs. When she finally appears before me, I give her a quick once-over. She really doesn't look well, her face being somewhat peaky and the discoloured smudges under her eyes leaving little doubt that she slept badly.

"Tracy," I greet her coolly.

"Hello Rilla," she replies, obviously unsure whether it's alright to look at me.

I take a few steps backwards to indicate that she's allowed to come in. Nodding in Joy's direction, I explain, "My sister Joy. I told you about her."

Tracy gasps audibly. "You're…" she stammers. "You're the sister who… God, I'm so sorry. If there's anything…" She trails off, obviously realising that there's nothing she can do, not for all the goodwill in the world.

Joy considers her for a long moment. "No need to apologise to me," she finally assures. "My job isn't on your conscience."

Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tracy's shoulders slacken with relief.

"But selling details of Rilla's work schedule to the press?" Joy continues. "That wasn't your best move."

Bit of an understatement, isn't it?

After a second of hesitation, Tracy turns to me. Almost instinctively, I fold my arms in front of my chest.

"It wasn't," Tracy agrees. "I'm sorry, Rilla. I know I shouldn't have done it. Please believe me."

Truth is, I do believe her. Believe her that she now knows it was wrong, that is. Forgiveness, however…

"Why did you do it?" Joy enquires, her tone almost conversational.

Tracy blinks at her – once, twice, three times – as she processes the question. I don't think she expected Joy to actually take an active part in this conversation.

"I… my husband and I… we've wanted to go on a vacation for so long, but we never had the money… then one day, he brought home this reporter, who was very nice and… it didn't seem so bad then. Just… just a few pictures and the schedule for a few weeks," she finally explains haltingly, repeating what she told me last night.

"If you _had_ gone on vacation at least," I mutter. I'm not sure whether I mean for either of them to hear, but apparently, they both do.

Joy raises an enquiring eyebrow at me, so I continue. "He drank the money away. Her –," swallowing what I really want to say, I instead make sure that my emphasis is at its nastiest, "her _husband_ drank it away."

As I spit out the word _husband_ , Joy's eyes flit over to me, asking a silent question. I've told her about Tracy before and when I now give the tiniest of nods, there's understanding dawning on her face. She knows that I have all kinds of reasons to dislike the husband and most of them don't concern me at all.

"Rilla doesn't think much of him. She thinks I should leave him," Tracy explains meanwhile, her watery, flickering smile trying and failing to diminish my opinion.

"That part was obvious," nods Joy, matter-of-factly. "What about you?"

Tracy seems so flabbergasted by the question that for several long seconds, she just gapes at Joy. Finally – "He's my husband."

"That wasn't what I asked," Joy informs her. She isn't unkind, but there's a firmness to her words that disallows any lies.

Tracy tries anyway. "He can be very nice," she replies quietly.

I scoff.

"Quiet on the peanut gallery, if you will," orders Joy immediately. When I glare at her, she just smiles back sweetly.

Apparently more cowed than I am, Tracy falls silent, causing Joy to take a step towards her. "I gather money is an issue?" she coaxes and I can see that she's making an effort to be encouraging, rather than strict.

Tracy nods shyly. "He… _We_ had a small business. Shawn couldn't open it in his name, so we put mine on the papers and…"

"And it went bust," finishes Joy with an understanding nod. "And I assume there are also some maxed-out credit cards knocking around?"

Silent, Tracy just nods.

"And you can't pay the premiums on your own." Joy's mind is obviously going a mile a minutes. I don't know what it is yet, but she's clearly concocting some kind of plan.

From Tracy, another nod.

"Something could be done about that, you know? There are ways to help people get on top of their debt," Joy tells her. "Counsellors to help with debt consolidation and that kind of thing. Or, if debt management isn't an option, there's bankruptcy, which can be another way out of it."

"It… it's a lot of debt," Tracy admits slowly.

Joy makes a thoughtful sound. "Something could be done about that, too, I think. If you weren't actively involved with the running of his business, you could argue that you didn't know the consequences of putting your name on the papers. That might get a court to reshuffle the debts to him – where, I'm sure, they belong."

Tracy stares at her, mouth agape.

"Joy," I warn quietly.

Not that she's wrong, of course. It's just that she's too fast. In symbolic distances, Joy is already somewhere in New Jersey, while Tracy has barely left this apartment.

"Right," Joy takes a deep breath to reign herself in. "Of course all of this is your call, Tracy. And I understand you don't know me and you don't have to talk to me, but… look, let's not talk about your husband, okay? Finding a way to manage your debt is a good thing regardless, don't you think?"

"That would be… amazing," Tracy admits tentatively. She still looks like she has no idea how she walked into this particular conversation, but she's trying her best to keep up with Joy.

"Great," beams Joy. "I'm no expert, but you and I can definitely chat a little and figure out what's the next step. Does that sound good?"

"Very good," agrees Tracy.

And it's the glimmer of hope in her eyes and the energy in Joy's expression that makes me smile as well. Because there might still be no way around the fact that Tracy _wasn't_ a good friend to me recently, but if Joy, in light of what happened to her, is willing to forgive me, I can hardly _not_ forgive Tracy, right? Especially knowing what I know.

It doesn't look like those two are in immediate need of me either, so I pick up my phone and quietly walk over to open the window that leads out to the fire escape. (Which I know to be the biggest New York movie cliché ever, thank you very much.) I have a boyfriend to make up with, after all.

I just think I'll manage to climb out without disturbing the two of them, when I hear Joy's voice behind me. "Rilla?"

"Yes?" I ask, looking at her over my shoulder.

Joy grins. "Make him grovel."

Yes. That was the idea.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'City of New Orleans' (written by Steve Goodman, released by Arlo Guthrie in 1972)._


	35. Does your conscience bother you?

_New York City, USA  
March 2012_

 **Does your conscience bother you?**

"…and then Mr Briegel asked me into his office and told me they'd like for me to stay on after I'm done with college. With a real contract and proper salary and everything." On my screen, tiny Di breaks out into a wide grin.

"That's great, Di!" I exclaim.

"Yes, congratulations!" adds Joy and smiles proudly.

Nan was already beaming even before Di got her news out, obviously having been told before. It's the twin thing, I guess. Even with half a country between them, they never fail to keep each other updated on their lives. Excepting Jerry, Di was also the first to know that Nan had been accepted in UofT's PhD program in child psychology, starting in autumn.

"It's a real opportunity," continues Di. "I mean, obviously, I don't know whether I want to stay there forever, but to be given a place in such a great research team right out of university is a big thing."

The institute is a well-respected centre for health-related research based in Winnipeg and Di has been working for them as a part-time laboratory assistant for roughly two years now, so their decision to give her a proper job after she gets her master's degree probably isn't all that surprising. But still. I'm glad she's happy.

"What about you, Joy?" asks Nan and her expression turns sombre. "Any news on the job front?"

Joy grimaces.

In the weeks since she got fired, she's gotten somewhat used to talking about it, but it's clear that the entire situation still weighs on her pretty heavily. As it would, really. I doubt there'll ever come a time when it won't at least sting.

"My old employer made it totally clear that there's absolutely no chance they will ever take me back. And as long as this investigation is hanging over my head, I'm toxic to everyone else as well," Joy is just explaining to the twins. It's a little hard to see on the grainy image of the screen, but I think she's trying for a smile. Without much success, mind.

"How is it going?" enquires Di. "The investigation?"

"We've got a specialised lawyer on the case and she's quite confident that she can resolve it. But it's going to take a while," answers Joy.

Nan nods. Di makes a humming sound. It's clear that neither of them knows what to say.

"Alas," now Joy manages a smile after all, "it gives me lots of time to spend with the children, which is nice. They seem to enjoy having more Mummy Time, Izzie especially."

Of course, Jake, who is old enough to grasp most of the situation, also enjoys having his mother home more, but I know he worries. He's a sensitive chap and Joy being sad makes him sad as well. Sad enough that I haven't yet dared to make it worse by telling him about my own plans.

"Have you met up with Tracy recently?" I ask my oldest sister, hoping to steer the conversation into less problematic waters.

Ever since that day in my apartment, Joy has been trying to be a support to Tracy, to the point that she sees much more of her than I do. (Because I might have forgiven her, but that doesn't mean I'm back to _trusting_ her as well.) I don't know whether Tracy knows that she's Joy's project now or whether she cares, but in addition to hopefully helping Tracy, it gives Joy something to focus on and surely, that must be a good thing.

"Tracy is Rilla's friend with the awful husband, correct?" checks Nan.

"The very, _very_ awful husband?" emphasises Di.

On the screen, Joy nods. "We've found a charity that supports women who are financially dependent on their husbands and with their help, we've been trying to work through her debt. I hope that if she has that under control, it will make her feel more independent and maybe make her assert herself more around the husband."

"Or she might actually leave him one day," I grumble.

"It's a big step. These things take time," Joy reminds.

I know that. Still, I hope for Tracy that she finds the strength to cut loose from him. Otherwise, I fear that in two years' time, she will be back to square one. To say nothing of the abuse, which won't stop just because she has cleared her (his!) debts.

"I got talking to one of the women helping at the charity and she told me a little about what their clients go through before they seek help," Joy continues. "Some of those stories were truly awful."

"Victims of domestic abuse tend to blame themselves," knows Nan, resident psychologist. "And that precludes them from rightly blaming the abuser, which means they won't leave them. Because in their reasoning, it isn't the husband's fault at all, it's their own fault for not being good enough. Not that being 'better' ever helps anyone, because an abuser will just find another excuse."

Di glares darkly at no-one in particular. "They should all get locked up."

"Yes," agrees Joy with a sigh. "Yes, they should be."

But they won't be, hence why the world needs charities like the one Joy just described.

"Ken's aunt is working with charities focusing on domestic abuse, trying to bring the issue to the attention of a broader public," I tell my sisters. "But he says it's not something that most people like being confronted with. Much easier to give some money to the animal shelter with the cute little puppies than to focus on something that would make them feel uneasy."

"The human race is an ignorant one," mutters Di and shakes her head mournfully.

No-one seems willing or able to contradict her, so for three or four seconds, we all fall silent. Finally, it's Joy saying, "Speaking of Ken –"

But she gets no further, for Di interrupts. "Yes, speaking of Ken. What did I read about him and Lady Hilda Whatsherface?"

Nan visibly perks up. "Have you _really_ been reading the _Daily Mail_?" she teases.

"I have," replies Di with her haughtiest expression, "and I felt my brain cells dying in scores. Which means I am now due an answer to make up for my sacrifice. Rilla, spill!"

I sigh heavily, to leave it in no doubt that I am only answering under duress, but knowing it to be the past of least resistance, I do anyway. "The article got it wrong, right down to the poor girl's name. She's no more a lady than you or I are."

"Doesn't her grandfather have a fancy title?" wonders Nan, wrinkling her nose in thought.

"Apparently so." I shrug. "So does her father, but a low one. She's an… Honourable or something?" That's what Ken said, anyway. I wouldn't pretend to understand the British title system.

Both Di and Nan seem to mull that over, so Joy takes the opportunity to speak up again. "What I _meant_ to ask before Di hijacked my question," this with a marked emphasis, "was whether you've heard back about that graduate program yet, Rilla?"

That gets both twins to sit up straighter, almost identical looks of curiosity on their faces. (They might not look alike, or act alike very often, but there are times when you get these flashes of uncanny resemblance and this is one of them.)

"I have, actually," I answer slowly, biting back a smile. "I got in."

Joy beams. "Congrats! First choice?"

"Uh-huh," I nod.

Di clucks her tongue impatiently, while Nan enquires, "Does either of you want to share what you're talking about?"

"Rilla got accepted into the graduate program she applied to," explains Joy.

The look of pronounced surprise on the twins' faces is almost enough to make me feel a little insulted. Me wanting to pursue a graduate degree isn't _that_ hard to believe, is it?

"Where are you heading?" Nan asks, a second too late.

Actually…

"Oxford."

That draws the strongest reaction yet. Di gapes. Nan blinks several times in quick succession, as if trying to dislodge something stuck in her eye.

"Oxford, England?" she finally queries.

I nod.

Di bursts out laughing.

(I can't even blame her. When Ken first mentioned that he'd be doing the new Master of Public Policy at Oxford and would I join him there, I, too, laughed at him.)

"No way you got accepted into Oxford!" Di exclaims.

(That's what I told Ken, too. "There's no way I will get accepted into Oxford," I told him. The very thought was absurd.)

Still… it's a little different coming from Di. _I'm_ allowed to say it. I'm not so sure whether she is.

"Yes, I did," I reply, a little sullenly.

"Sociology, was it?" This from Joy, obviously with a view to diffusing the situation before it can build into something more.

Nan immediately jumps to her aid. "What made you chose sociology?"

Truth to be told, I didn't _chose_ sociology, per se. It was merely… the default option? The thought of doing another year of English or economics was abhorrent to me and they allow students with a non-consecutive bachelor to take the master's degree in sociology, so long as you assure your interest in the subject. Additionally, it was one of the few courses with a March deadline, allowing me to actually get an application together before the time window closed. And lastly, not only do they accept one in four people for sociology, compared to the one in ten for other programs, it also 'only' calls for a 3.5 GPA, not the 3.85 they want for, say, English literature. And, well, not that I _ever_ had a 3.5 GPA, but… my grades are undeniably closer to a 3.5 than they are to a 3.85.

Not that I can actually say any of this though. They're already looking at me all funny as it is.

"It seemed like an interesting addition to my education," I therefore answer with a shrug, hoping they'll accept it as an answer.

Nan nods, though to what extent she believes me and to what extent she's just trying to keep the peace, I don't know.

Di, meanwhile, frowns deeply. "That doesn't explain how you got accepted though."

"I applied. I got accepted," I reply, pursing my lips slightly. "It's straightforward."

"No it is not," Di immediately disputes, shaking her head as she does. "I mean, I love you, Rilla, but this is _Oxford_ and you're, well, _you_ , and they day you get offered a place at Oxford is the day hell freezes over."

"In that case, I suggest you get out your jumpers," I reply sarcastically.

My sister choses to ignore this. "I don't want to upset you, but you can't deny that you don't have the grades for Oxford," she remarks instead.

I don't. I never did. Even with my grades markedly looking up this year, I don't have what it takes to Oxford and we all know it.

"They don't solely look at grades," Joy interjects anyway. "They have letters of motivations and recommendations to consider as well, and work samples, too. And Rilla's application was good."

It _was_ good, I think. Joy and Dan helped me with it, back before the immigration issue blew up in our faces, and even Ken pitched in when he was here for a glorious week late in January. I mean, it probably still wasn't the best application there ever has been, but I do think it was solid.

"Not _that_ good," Di argues. "Even the perfect letter of motivation wouldn't have gotten Rilla a place at Oxford on her own merits."

Well, thanks a lot.

"I _got_ a place though, so joke's on you," I inform her, aiming for haughtiness.

Di pulls her mouth into a twist. "You got a place. I'm questioning whether you got it on your own merit."

Is she implying…?

"If you're suggesting that Ken pulled rank and made someone offer me a place, you are mistaken," I snap. "Which I know because I very specifically asked him not to and I know he wouldn't do it against my wishes."

He did offer, though not in so many words. I explicitly forbade him from getting involved, even at the risk of having to study at one of the other universities I applied to and having to commute for a year. I have my pride, after all.

"He probably didn't even have to do anything," points out Di. "Chances are, the committee members at Oxford took one look at your name and decided to do their future king a solid and accept you."

I…

"Can they do that?" Nan asks, her brow knitted into a thoughtful frown.

Di shrugs. "It's an opaque process. Officially, they will claim her recommendation letters were just so very good or some other nonsense."

"Maybe they were? What do _you_ know?" I reply, sounding sourly even to my own ears. "And why do you care anyway? Anyone would think you're begrudging me this."

"I'm not," Di is quick to deny. "Not on a personal level. But morally, I think this is wrong."

"Diana." Joy's voice is low and warning.

Tossing her head a little, Di argues, "I'm right and you know it, Joy. If Rilla got offered a place because of who she's dating, that means someone else lost out on that place. Someone who truly earned it."

"You don't know that." Joy's lips are pursed in disapproval and I feel a rush of gratefulness.

"And you can't be sure that it isn't the case," is Di's immediate reply. "Look, I wish Rilla all the best, but if she got that place through nepotism – and everything points to that having been the case – that's ethically wrong. Actually, it's wrong on a lot of levels."

"I'm still here, you know," I mutter. "And I can hear you."

Di turns her eyes to the left, apparently having moved them from Joy's image to mine. "I know you are. And I'm sorry I can't tell you what you want to hear, but I won't pretend that I don't disagree with your choice to take this place."

"What would you have me do, then? Decline it?" I ask, raising both eyebrows as high as possible.

Letting go of a breath, Di seems to think this over for a moment. "If you at least _wanted_ that place…" she finally replies. "If you at least wanted to go on studying, that'd be better. But let's face it, Rilla, you have no interest in spending more time at _any_ university, not even Oxford. You're just doing this for him and frankly, I don't think that's a good enough reason."

"Di," murmurs Nan, reaching up to awkwardly tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

" _Sociology_ , Nan!" Di exclaims, throwing her hands up. "Rilla doesn't care about sociology any more than you care about nuclear engineering or I care about Massai poetry. It's merely a convenient excuse to move to England and I just think that if that was the objective, it'd be better to be upfront about it rather than take away a place at Oxford from a person who truly wants and truly deserves it."

Wow. That was… direct.

(She's wrong though. I think my interest in sociology does exceed hers in Massai poetry by quite a margin.)

Joy looks like she wants to say something, but I shake my head vehemently and she closes her mouth again. Nan bites her lip.

"I realise that you have strong feelings on the matter, Di, but you must forgive me when I tell you that your moral convictions don't rule my life," I remark, barely able to keep my voice level. "So, quite frankly, why won't you just go to hell?"

I don't give her an opportunity to say anything more. In fact, I slam the laptop shut with much more force than necessary, just about controlling the impulse to push it off the bed as well.

That went a lot worse than expected. In fact, that was a total disaster.

Just great.

Just sodding great.

Staring at the closed laptop, I try to control both my breathing and my thoughts, but haven't had much success with either when my phone suddenly rings. Warily, I lean forward to look at the caller ID, but it's just Nan.

"Hey," I greet, feeling suddenly very tired.

"Hello," comes Nan's concerned voice. "Are you alright?"

I wave my hand vaguely to brush away the question, before realising that she can't see me, now that we've switched over to plain old phones. "I'm fine," I assure instead.

"Don't mind, Di, please," asks Nan. "She doesn't mean it personally. I have no doubt that she wishes you all the best. It's just that… you know how strongly she feels about equality."

"She left it in little doubt," I mutter, letting my head drop forward and squeezing my eyes shut for a moment.

"If it makes you feel any better, Joy was chewing her out when I left the Skype call," Nan tries to comfort. "She seemed to have it all under control as well, which is why I thought I'd check on you."

Making a thoughtful sound, I push the laptop further away from me. "But Joy agrees with her about the equality thing," I remind. "She might not have said anything just there, but she feels at least as strongly about it as Di."

"Generally speaking, she does." I can practically hear the smile in Nan's voice. "But this is you we're talking about, so different rules apply. If it's your happiness at stake, Joy can be almost as flexible about her principles as she is when it concerns her own children. She's about as protective, too. Whenever we were mean to you as kids, we could count on her intervening and giving us a talking to. In contrast, she never has been able to stay mad at you for longer than three hours."

For a moment, I mull this over in my mind. It's true that Joy has always had a protective eye on me when we were children (which, curiously, hardly ever extended to Shirley at all, despite him being even younger). And she _was_ very quick to forgive me back in February, wasn't she?

"But isn't it unfair to chide Di? It's not like she hasn't got a point," I argue anyway, focusing back on Nan and the conversation at hand.

"Actually, no, she doesn't," corrects Nan, sounding almost cheerful.

Huh?

"Elaborate, please?" I ask.

There's a rustle and I can practically see Nan settling more comfortably into a cushy chair with too many pillows, before she explains, "The way I see it, she might be right about the inequality of this, but she's wrong to be blaming you. None of this is your responsibility."

"How do you work that out?" I wonder, frowning. "I'm the one offered a place at Oxford that I very likely didn't earn."

"Ah, but you didn't make the decision and therein lies all the difference," points out Nan, sounding pleased with her logic.

I still don't get it.

My silence must have given me away, too, because Nan makes an impatient sound. "Alright, look at it this way: Did you, in any way or form, try to do something untoward to better your chances of getting a place."

I shake my head. "No."

"Did you hint to Kenneth that he might get involved?" Nan asks pointedly.

"Not at all. In fact, I explicitly forbade him to!" I stress.

"And did you leave a little note for the application committee to find, reminding them that you have friends in high places?" my sister questions further.

Now, I know she's heading somewhere with this, but I can't help feeling a little indignant that she'd even need to ask. "Of course not!"

"Then you didn't do anything wrong," Nan decides. "You applied, just like everyone else does, and you got accepted. There's nothing morally questionable about that.

"But what if they only accepted me because they looked at my name and linked it to Ken?" I want to know. (I hate to admit it, but Di's reaction did leave me feeling unsure about this.)

"Then that's on them. They made the decision and if they made it for the wrong reasons, it's on their conscience, not yours." Nan sounds reassuringly convinced as she says it and there's nothing I'd want more than to believe her.

Still…

Gnawing on my lower lip, I think over her words. "But shouldn't I put it right?" I finally ask.

"How would you? By declining the place?" Nan clucks her tongue and suddenly sounds very like Di. "You don't even know for sure whether someone else was denied that place and whether, if you stepped down, it would be passed on. And besides, how can you be sure they didn't create an additional place for you? Or that they weren't truly bowled over by your application?"

"Unlikely," I murmur.

It's not false modesty either. I might have liked the idea of Oxford truly being interested in me, but Di's right on that account. As a student, I've got nothing to offer them.

"But possible," decrees Nan. "So, don't let yourself be swayed by Di being a snob about it. In fact, don't let yourself be swayed by Di being a snob about you wanting to be with Kenneth either."

"Not that she was wrong about that," I admit. "I don't particularly want to continue studying. I mostly just want to be with him."

"And no harm in that," Nan immediately replies. "Di is just being difficult because she's going through a tough time herself, romance-wise."

This is news to me, I must say.

"What about…" I break off, racking my brain for the name of Di's latest girlfriend. "Was she called Natalie?"

"Natasha," corrects Nan. "And they broke up last weekend. Which is why Di is inclined to be cynical about love right now."

Poor Di. That does explain rather a lot about why she was feeling so… confrontational today. From what I gathered before, she didn't think she and Natasha would go the distance, but still. She must be hurting.

"It's understandable," I remark, feeling myself soften a little towards Di.

"It is," agrees Nan. "Doesn't mean she's right though. There's a time for sticking to principles and there's a time for compromising to keep a relationship strong. And, just between you and me and the bedpost, I think that sometimes, Di would benefit from a little less principle and a little more compromise in love."

Just between me and the bedpost, I think that Di would benefit from a little more compromise in general. I love her, but she can be pretty unyielding sometimes.

Swivelling back to our earlier subject, I ask Nan, "So you don't think it's wrong of me to want to move to be with Ken?"

She laughs. "Are you kidding me? I'm surprised you haven't yet! Jerry and I just had to navigate the distance between Montreal and Toronto and that was hard enough. You two have an entire ocean between you!"

That's true, isn't it? Nan and Jerry did the long distance thing for two years, but at least they were in the same country and saw each other regularly. Ken has been here just twice this year, for a week late in January and an extended weekend earlier this month.

(And there's an irony to the fact that even though the world knows about us now, we still keep holed up in my apartment. Partly because Ken doesn't want to give anyone an exclusive photograph of us together and partly because we want to savour the precious time we have. Whenever I had to leave for university while he was here, I did so only most reluctantly. I usually left Ken to the care of Mrs Weisz during those hours, which delighted them both. He denied it, but I have a sneaking suspicion he even read some Nora Roberts and Jill Cooper novels in preparation.)

"You understand me wanting to be with him then?" I'm not sure I mean it to be a question or not, but it comes out as one.

"Of course I understand you," assures Nan. "Long distance is manageable for a while, but it only ever works temporarily. I should know, after all. And it's not like he can just move to wherever he wants to, so it makes sense for you to go to him. It's a big step, but I understand why you're taking it."

I let go of a long breath. "Thanks. That means a lot."

"Anytime." A beat. "Besides, phone sex is nice and well in the beginning, but it does get rather lonely rather fast, right?"

" _Nan_!" I screech.

On the end of the line, Nan laughs. "Sorry, couldn't resist."

"Well, _try_ ," I grumble, but suppress a smile of my own.

"Oh, look on the bright side," replies Nan, still clearly teasing. "Soon, there'll be no need for you to rely phone variety anymore."

Gee, thanks.

"So long as the British let me in," I point out, if mostly to keep her from talking about phone sex any longer. "I still haven't had a chance to look into possible visas yet and who knows, maybe they'll take offence that I had a job at the ice cream parlour that summer after tenth year?"

"I shouldn't think so. After all, there's an Ancestry Visa you can use and that hardly has any caveats attached to it," remarks Nan, brightening at the thought. "I looked into it a bit when Jerry briefly considered taking a job in London last year."

Huh? I didn't know he had been offered one.

But Nan's still talking. "Dad's mother – his _real_ mother – was British. And with a British-born grandparent, us little wildlings from the Commonwealth are allowed to return to live in the motherland."

"Was she really? British, I mean?" I ask, skipping over the visa part and right to our grandmother. I know next to nothing about Dad's birth mother. With Grandmother Marilla around, it always seemed disloyal to ask.

"Born in Scotland, I think, but she must have lived in England for a while as well," relays Nan. "That's how she and Grandpa met in the first place, from what I gathered. He went over as a soldier during the war and when he returned to Canada, he brought a wife with him."

My frown deepening, I rack my brain until I unearth some half-buried information on the matter. "He was a plane mechanic, wasn't he? Grandpa, during the war."

"Something of that sort, yes," replies Nan vaguely. "Of course, him going was what led to the initial falling out between him and Grandmother Marilla. They were sweethearts, but she disapproved of him going to war and put out an ultimatum. When he went anyway, she broke up with him and by the time he returned, he was already married to Grandmother Millicent."

"Seems a little extreme of her," I muse. "Of Grandmother Marilla, I mean. Back then, most men were soldiers, weren't they?"

Nan makes a thoughtful sound. "She'd lost her older brother Matthew not too long before. Killed in action at that French suicide mission they sent the Canadians on sometime early-ish in the war. I'd have to look up the name. Or ask Grandma Bertha. She'd know"

I never knew this. How come I never knew this?

"How come I never knew this?"

"It's not something anyone likes to talk about much. I think the memory is still somewhat painful," explains Nan. "Most of what I know, I only learned about because I went and picked Mrs Lynde's brain some years ago. According to her, Grandmother was very close to her brother and his death hit her hard. The thought of having her boyfriend go as well was apparently too much for her and she tried to pressure him into staying."

"Which just led to her losing him completely," I conclude.

"Not for good," Nan points out.

No. Not for good.

Gathering my thoughts, I ask, "Any more family lore you want to share?"

Nan laughs. "No, I'm good. I don't think there's much more of it anyway. Mum's father had some ancestors fighting for Irish independence back in the day, but nothing recent. Think Easter Rising and related events."

I groan. "Great. If the press ever finds out about that, what's betting they're going to paint me as a gun-toting revolutionary out to secretly overthrow the Royal Family and create an Irish super state?"

(Never mind that my only personal experience of Ireland comes from a weekend trip to Dublin back during the Geneva days. And honestly, I like a good book as much as the next person, but let me tell you, they're most _definitely_ overcharging for admission to Trinity Library!)

"I'm not going to bet against it. Those journalists come up with the most amazing stories," Nan informs me cheerfully.

Yeah. Don't I know it.

With a weary sigh, I let myself drop backward, coming to lie diagonally across the bed. "Now, about that visa you mentioned…"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Sweet Home Alabama' (written by Ed King, Gary Rossington and Ronnie Van Zant, released by Lynyrd Skynyrd in 1974)._

* * *

 _A/N: Due to technical issues, this chapter isn't beta-read. We couldn't get the proof-read version from_ oz diva _to me in a workable format, so you're getting this as is. If there are mistakes still in there, they're on me. If you find one, you can keep it ;)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Someone from the old days! Hello and welcome back! You sent me on a trip right down memory lane with your review_ _and what a fun trip it was. So thanks for that! And please never hesitate to leave me a review. I cherish them all and yours certainly made me smile :)._  
 _I'm sorry to hear you had a bad day (airports are never fun places to be stuck at and especially not when one has somewhere important to be) and hope the weekend was at least a little improved. And if my story did help even a little to make the bad day a bit brighter, I'm glad._  
 _I can't promise you fluff just yet, but look out for the chapter after next. We should be coming up to a stretch of fairly fluffy chapters with that one. And as for a happy ending... well, without wanting to say to much, I see this story as a modern fairy tale (rather than an anti-fairy tale), so we're not gearing up for an ending of grief and despair ;).  
I also very much hope there _will _be an ending! I promise that I'm absolutely resolved to finish this story and generally speaking, my track record isn't too bad either. I apologise for never finishing the translation of the old story you used to read (I did finish the German version and its three sequels though), but I was a teenager back then and translation was a lot of hard work. I just lost interest in doing it at some point and when I came back to it years later, I realised the story just wasn't that good and I'd better put effort into newer, hopefully better stories. And here we are, I guess.  
Anyway, I was very happy to hear from you and even happier that you're enjoying the story. I'd also love to know what you think of this (or any other) chapter, if you feel like sharing :).  
_


	36. Said goodbye unnoticed

_New York City, USA  
April 2012_

 **Said goodbye unnoticed**

"Hello, Georgie."

Dropping the duffel bag on the pavement, I bend down to give George a welcoming ear scratch and he rubs his head against my calf in return.

"Been out romancing the girls again?" I ask him, as I let my hand glide over his back. "Or have you finally beat up that annoying tabby for good?"

(The tabby moved into the neighbourhood two weeks ago. George was not well pleased with the competition.)

"Meow," answers George and curves his back upwards.

"You want to go home and get some food?" I suggest, reaching out to grab hold of the duffel bag again. It's full of loaned clothes, most of them from Seraphina, with some key pieces from Nia thrown in as well. I slept over at their place last night and we spent the better part of the evening going through both their wardrobes and deciding what could work for me.

This because, while my parents upped my allowance to compensate for the loss of my other sources of income, they didn't make up the difference in spending money that had previously come from waitressing. Thus, there haven't been many shopping trips for me in recent weeks, not even to my favourite second hand shops. And with the lack of new clothes came the press reports chronicling how often I re-wore something in a fortnight (or "recycle" as that nice fashion blogger calls it) and while I _know_ I shouldn't care, it does bug me, hence the raiding of my friends' closets.

"Meow," agrees George and bumps his head against my shin for good measure. Then, with a pointed look at me, he sets off along the street, tail held proudly aloft.

I hurry to follow (can't let His Majesty wait for the promised food, can I?), throwing the duffel bag over one shoulder and blindly searching my handbag for my keys as I walk. As we near the apartment building, I spot the usual contingent of photographers on the other side of the street.

After the frenzy of February, their numbers went down markedly, stabilising at around half a dozen which I can't seem to shake. I know most of their faces by now and have even started to observe some of their mannerisms. There's one who always wears sunglasses like some kind of long-lost Blues Brother, and one with a bewildering number of brightly-coloured sneakers on rota. Another one seems to be continuously playing phone games, only looking up when I venture close (I wonder how the sound hasn't made the others go mad yet), and one weirdly always crouches down to photograph me. (Initially, I thought it was to get a shot up my skirt, but he does it when I'm wearing jeans as well, so it might just be that he's aiming for an 'artistic' angle.)

It makes them appear more human, these quirks, though whether I like to look at them as humans or not, I haven't decided yet.

Upon seeing me, the photographers reach for their cameras, but there's no urgency to their actions. It's just any other day, after all, and they already know that the umpteenth picture of me in front of the very same apartment building isn't going to sell better than any of its predecessors. (I suppose someone might be able to spin the fact that I'm returning home in the morning after a night out with a duffel bag over my shoulder into a story claiming I'm having a secret affair, but I'm sure as anything not going to give them ideas.)

When he hears the cameras click, George swishes his tail back and forth and hisses at the photographers, the fur on his back rising in indignation and his ears folding backwards.

"It's alright, Georgie," I placate. "They won't harm you."

(Though I wouldn't mind seeing what George would do to anyone foolish enough to try.)

George _looks_ at me in a way that leaves little doubt about the fact that he thinks I'm too naïve and that he's judging me for it.

"Sorry, Georgie," I smile. "Of course you're right. Better get inside quickly, right?"

Not needing to be told twice, George skips up the stairs and sits next to the still-closed front door, obviously quite impatient with me and my slow two-legged walk. Not wanting to upset him further, I hurry to unlock the door for him and he slips past my legs the moment I open it.

Shutting out the photographers, I let my duffel bag slide down my shoulder and set it down by my feet, as I turn to check my mailbox. There's nothing in there but a glossy catalogue advertising shoes I don't have the money to buy, so I just turn to follow George (who's already halfway up the first staircase and watching me reproachfully), when my gaze lands on Mrs Weisz's mailbox.

Through the little window in the lower right corner, something white is winking at me, meaning that there's obviously still mail in there. Which is unusual given that Mrs Weisz usually checks her mail first thing after breakfast. Not that she seems to get a lot, but whatever mail she does get, she takes care to open as soon as possible.

Leaving the mail be, I walk the few steps to Mrs Weisz's front door and press the button next to it. I can hear the doorbell ring inside the flat, but no other reaction. Not even when I ring it twice, then three times, keeping my finger on the button for a good ten seconds.

Something is wrong.

"Mrs Weisz?" I call, knocking on the door. "Mrs Weisz, are you there? Are you alright?"

No answer.

"Mrs Weisz?" My knocking has turned into a pounding, but inside the flat everything remains eerily quiet.

Can it be that she has gone out?

But she hasn't left the house in I don't know how long! Why would she do it now?

"Mrs Weisz? It's Rilla. Please open the door."

Nothing.

What if she has fallen again? What is she's lying somewhere, maybe injured, maybe unconscious?

Hesitating just for the briefest of seconds, I come to a decision. Grabbing the duffel bag off the floor, I turn towards the stairs, running up them as quickly as possible. (George, pleasantly surprised by my sudden haste, is ahead of me, jumping up the steps on light paws.) By the time I've reached my apartment, I'm hopelessly out of breath, but I don't give myself a moment to catch it. Fumbling with my keys, it takes me two attempts to unlock the door, the process not being helped by George winding around my legs, almost making me stumble.

The moment the door opens, he rushes past me and towards the kitchenette, turning to look at me imploringly.

"Sorry, boy. I don't have time to feed you," I apologise distractedly as I drop the duffel bag in the middle of the room and hurry to get Mrs Weisz's spare key from my sock drawer.

"Meow!" insists George, but I'm already half out of the door again. After all, he's free to leave through the window and catch himself a defenceless animal much smaller than him. And besides, he's got plenty of reserves. He won't starve.

I'm down the stairs even faster than I came up them, standing in front of Mrs Weisz's door in what can't have been more than a few minutes yet feels far longer than that.

What if she's seriously hurt?

With jittery fingers, I press the doorbell again, just in case I overreacted, and she was simply in the bathroom.

"Mrs Weisz?" I call out.

But nothing.

My hands are shaking so much that I drop the key in my attempt to get it into the lock and even after picking it up, I almost don't manage, but then, finally, mercifully, the door swings open.

"Mrs Weisz? Are you in?"

I am only partly aware of my body going through the motions of closing the door, dropping my handbag on the floor and placing the key on a side table in the hall. All my senses are concentrated on the flat, listening for some sound that tells me she's alright.

There's just silence. A strange, unsettling, impenetrable silence.

"Mrs Weisz?"

Almost out of habit, my feet steer me towards the kitchen first – and there she is!

She sits in her high-backed chair by the window as she so often does, and for a moment, I breathe a sigh of relief. But even as I do, I take a step closer and notice that she's slumped over in a strange way, with her body tilting sideways and her head leaning against the glass of the window.

"Mrs Weisz?" I ask cautiously. "Are you alright?"

No answer.

Which means she is… what? Asleep? Unconscious?

Crossing the distance between us in quick strides, I crouch down next to the chair and try to get a look at her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is slack. She looks wan, in the way sick people do. When I gently nudge her, she barely even moves.

"Mrs Weisz, this is Rilla. Could you, um… wake up, please?" As the words leave my mouth, I realise how foolish they sound, but there's no helping it.

Not that it matters anyway, because Mrs Weisz most certainly does not wake up. Which I take to meant that she must be unconscious, or something.

Feeling as helpless as I've ever been, I stare at Mrs Weisz's unmoving face for a second, frantically trying to think of what to do next.

I'm a doctor's daughter for crying out loud! My brother is going to be a surgeon and if family lore has it right, I had a great-grandmother who was an army nurse. Shouldn't I at least have an _idea_ how to handle this?

I mean, I… I guess I could take her pulse, couldn't I? And then… call an ambulance, maybe? That would be a good idea, right?

Gingerly reaching out, I put my thumb on the inside of Mrs Weisz's wrist, making sure not to jostle her hand around as I do. It feels cool to the touch, which worries me, and for a moment or two, I can't find a pulse either, which makes me want to panic. But then I move my thumb a little and suddenly, there's a thud, followed by another. They're faint, but seem steady. If anything, I might say they're a bit fast, but… fast is better than slow, isn't it?

"No worries, Mrs Weisz," I tell the unconscious woman as I let go of her wrist and pick myself up from the floor. "I'll get help and then you'll feel better in no time."

In the hall, I grab the receiver of Mrs Weisz's landline. She still has one of these old-fashioned rotary dial phones and for a moment that throws me, but then I take a deep breath and stretch out a shaking hand to dial. (911 _is_ 911 everywhere, right?)

I must have done something right, because seconds later a there's a business-like voice on the other end of the line, asking what they can do for me and I feel my shoulders slump in relief. Help will soon be on its way.

After having relayed Mrs Weisz's symptoms and our whereabouts to the operator and being assured that an ambulance will be with us as soon as possible, I carefully put the receiver down again. My hands, I realise, are still shaking and won't even stop when I ball them into tight fists.

The operator told me not to move Mrs Weisz, for fear of her falling from the chair and injuring herself even further, so for the next few minutes, I am left with nothing to do but wait. Hovering near the kitchen door, in a spot that allows me to keep an eye on a still unmoving Mrs Weisz, the outdated telephone and the front door, I count the seconds in my head, hoping that the ambulance will come quickly.

I've reached second 563 (though I'm not sure whether I didn't miss a few) when there's a loud and insistent ringing of the doorbell.

They're here!

Stumbling towards the front door, I hurry to press the buzzer and open the door. And if, until that moment time seemed to be moving too slow, it suddenly accelerates without any kind of warning as about five things happen at once.

"Where is the patient?" asks a wiry woman in a dark shirt, even as she pushes past me and into the hall.

For a second, I am too dumbstruck to answer, but finally manage to croak, "In the kitchen. Last door to the left."

"Please wait here, Miss," calls the woman over her shoulder and seconds later she and her colleague disappear into the kitchen. The door closes behind them with an ominous thud.

I am once more forced to wait, standing in the middle of the hall, nervously fiddling with the circle charm on my necklace and hoping it'll be alright.

But the door remains firmly closed and I can practically _feel_ the minutes ticking by. Which can't be good, right? They wouldn't need so much time behind a closed door if it wasn't not good, would they?

Unable to just remain standing there, I find that my feet are carrying me over to where my handbag stands by the door. My fingers have fished out my phone before I even consciously decided to call anyone.

The call to Dad goes straight to voicemail and only then does it occur to me that at 9am on a Wednesday morning he's likely to be working. Mum, too, is bound to be holding a seminar of sorts and I just remember that Joy's at court, representing one of the women she met through that charity she's been in contact with. (Pro bono, of course.)

Ken's phone is switched off as well. Following an impulse, I select the number of Melissa, Second Undersecretary (or something), from my contacts and press 'call'.

"Hello Miss Blythe!" comes the chipper greeting. (So she's got my number saved as well, yes?) "How can I help you?"

"Good morning," I reply, only belatedly realising it's already afternoon for her. "Is he busy?"

"I'm truly sorry, but he's opening a factory as we speak," explains Melissa, sounding apologetic.

Should have foreseen that.

"Can I take a message?" asks Melissa, still with the cheerfulness. (The rational part of me knows she's doing her job and that she has no idea something is wrong, but the irrational part decides that her good mood is grating on my nerves.)

"Just…" I hesitate. "Just tell him that our mutual friend is unwell and if he could call me back when he has a minute?"

"Your mutual friend is unwell," parrots Melissa and I can almost feel her curiosity radiating through the phone, "and you'd like a call. Got that. Anything else I can do for you?"

But in that moment the kitchen door opens and draws my attention. I just manage a quick thanks to Melissa before cutting the call and dropping the phone into my bag.

"Is she alright?" I ask the somewhat portly man now stepping into the hall. The wiry woman follows him, but darts past me towards the front door without a word.

The man makes an indecipherable sound. "I'm sorry, but she didn't make it."

…

…

…

What?

"What?"

He shakes his head sadly. "She is dead, Miss. There was nothing we could do for her. She must have died sometime during the night, but the actual cause and time of death will have to be determined by the coroner."

 _What?_

My head is spinning. I'm grasping at thoughts, but they all flutter away before I can take a hold of them. Nothing makes _sense_ anymore.

"But… but… she had a pulse!" I protest. "I definitely felt a pulse. I didn't imagine that. There was a pulse and you should get back in there and help her!"

The man reaches out to put a hand on my arm, but I jerk away. "She has been dead for hours, Miss." He sounds so reasonable, the way he says it, and I want nothing more than to hit him. Or scream at him. Or _anything_.

"She was alive. She had a pulse!" I insist, my voice rising to a hysterical pitch.

I did _not_ imagine it.

A moment passes, as the man seems to consider this. "Which finger did you use to check her pulse?" he finally asks.

What's that got to do with anything?

"I don't know. Who cares?" I snap. I want him to go back and help her, not talk nonsense at me!

"Was it your thumb, by any chance?" he wants to know, still speaking maddeningly slowly.

I throw my hands up on irritation and glare at him. "Yes, maybe."

"I thought so," nods the man. "You felt your own pulse, Miss. We never the thumb to check someone else's pulse, because you're more likely to feel your own pulse in your thumb, which can confuse the reading. I imagine this is what happened here."

For an incalculable number of seconds, I just stare at him, as his words chase each other around in my head.

They make sense.

I don't want them to, but they make sense.

Dead.

Stumbling sideways, I blindly reach towards the wall for support.

Dead.

"Can I help you, Miss?" asks the man, now concerned.

I shake my head. Then shake it again, as forcefully as I can.

"Are you a relative?" asks a new voice and I slowly turn my head to see the wiry woman standing in the doorway.

"No. I'm a –"

'Neighbour', is what I meant to say. "Friend," is what comes out instead.

"Do you know how to contact the relatives?" the woman wants to know. She takes a step towards me and I instinctively back away.

"I… I suppose I could… find out, maybe?" I stammer.

The woman nods, business-like. "If you could contact them, please? I've already been in touch with the coroner's office and someone will be here to take care of the body later today."

The body?

Looking past me at her colleague, the woman adds, "Are you coming? We just had another emergency coming in. Roadside accident with multiple casualties."

"Sure," agrees the man. Then he hesitates and when I turn my head, I find him looking at me. "Are you alright on your own here, Miss?"

Am I alright…?

No, I am not alright. I am _not_ alright.

But even as I think it, I find my head nodding consent.

"Good. Take care." With which the man walks past me to join the woman who's already halfway outside. He closes the door almost soundlessly behind himself and just like that, I am alone.

Alone.

Because Mrs Weisz might still be there in the kitchen, but she's not really and this is a mess and shouldn't be happening and it's all wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Sinking down to the floor, I bury my face in my hands, pressing my fingers against my eyes and try not to panic.

Dead.

Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

It sounds surreal. It _feels_ surreal.

It feels like it shouldn't be true and yet, deep down, I know it is. Perhaps I've known all along.

How long I end up sitting on the floor, face hidden from the world, I can't say. Maybe minutes, maybe an hour, maybe even longer. At one point, I am dimly aware of my phone ringing, but the very thought of getting up to talk to a person is too exhausting, so I let it ring until it goes silent on its own.

When I finally push myself up from the floor, I stagger past the kitchen door and into the living room. Standing in the doorway, I stare at the furniture in bewilderment for a long moment, until I remember what I need to do here.

Contact the relatives. Find a way to contact the relatives.

Gingerly I walk over to a chest of drawers and open the top one. It feels wrong, to go through Mrs Weisz things, even as I know that she can't mind anymore and probably wouldn't, even if she could. She'd want me to tell her family, wouldn't she?

The drawer holds nothing of interest, so I turn to the second one and, after that, slowly work myself through the contents of the living room. It helps a little against the whirling in my head, to concentrate on doing something useful, though I can't shake the feeling of intruding upon her privacy. (And I frantically hope that whatever I'm searching for isn't in the kitchen. _Please_ let it not be in the kitchen!)

In the end I have my first interesting find in the bedroom, where the bedside drawer holds a faded green folder with a collection of papers and documents. Cautiously sitting down in the bed, I slowly go through them. A lot of them are just bills and stuff, but then I stumble upon what looks like a thin sheet of carbon paper with typical typewriter font upon it. It's apparently the copy of a letter and I just want to quickly check whether it's addressed to a family member, when one word jumps out at me.

Blythe.

Scanning the letter quickly, I feel my breath quicken. It is addressed to the New York Times and dated early January. And it is a letter written to defend me. To defend _me_.

I don't finish reading what she wrote. Halfway through, tears start blurring my vision, smudging the words into dark, shapeless forms that make no sense anymore. Not that they need to. She wrote a letter and she did it to defend me.

 _Me._

It takes me minutes to pull myself together enough to continue with the folder, though I make a point to set the letter aside. I hope it's alright with her if I keep it.

Still sniffling, but determined to do this last thing for Mrs Weisz and find her family, I go through the rest of the folder. It is only right at the bottom that something piques my interest again. Certificates. Official looking ones.

There's what looks like an old birth certificate for Rivka Abel, born in 1930. The birth place might be a town called Győr, or it might not. It's hard to tell, with the entire certificate written in what I presume to be Hungarian. The certificate of marriage for Rivka Abel and Michael Weisz is in English, having been issued in 1947 here in Brooklyn. Following it are two certificates verifying the birth of Hannah Weisz in June 1948 and her death in November of the same year as well as another death certificate for Michael Weisz, issued in 1959, with the cause of death listed as 'accidental'.

I didn't know she had a daughter who died.

How come I didn't know she had a daughter who died?

And where are the birth certificates for her other children? I know she has them, she's talked about them often enough, even though I've never actually met any of them.

Riffling through the last papers in the folder, I find no further certificates. Instead, there are Mrs Weisz's diplomas proving she got both a bachelor's and master's degree in engineering in the 1960s and a doctorate in the 1970s. (Did I ever know she had a PhD?)

I just think that that is it when I see the photo. It's the last object in the folder and it looks old. Depicted are mother and father with five children and the tiny black-and-white people appear very solemn indeed. Turning the picture around, I see that it's dated 1937 and it has names on them, relating to the position of the people on the other side. The names are written faintly in faded blue ink, but someone else must have later added birth and death dates in black.

The birth dates span from 1889 to 1934. The death dates are all in the 1940s. The only one without a death date is Rivka, born in 1930.

Does that mean…?

Can it be…?

My heart contorts at the thought.

Did she really lose her entire family before coming here?

But… but that can't be true, right? I _know_ she's told me about coming here with her parents and her siblings. About how her brother was sick the entire time on the ship and how scared her parents were of being rejected at immigration. So, how…?

Also, didn't she say her mother's name was Abigail? Here, it is clearly listed as Hana.

Confused, I lower the photograph and let my gaze wander through the room, in search of something that might explain this.

This makes no sense.

This entire flat is filled with framed photos of her family and not one of them looks like it dates back to the 1930s. But how can that be, if her entire family died before she even came here?

Frowning, I get up from the bed and reach for the nearest frame. It takes me a moment to loosen the clips securing it but when I manage, the photograph falls out. Except it's not a photograph at all. It's… a newspaper cut out?

Why is this a newspaper cut out?

Confused, I turn towards the next frame, which holds a photo of Aunt Ruth. I distinctly remember the story of how Aunt Ruth insisted on making all her relatives go change if they dared to turn up wearing white after Labour Day. Taking the photo from the frame and turning it around, I expect to see the name Ruth written on the back. Instead, it says "Ophelia Stanley" in elegant cursive.

Who on _earth_ is Ophelia Stanley?

Increasingly frantic, I pick up one frame after the other and pry them open. And I still continue long after the truth has dawned on me, in what might be a desperate hope that I could yet be proven wrong.

But it remains a futile wish.

When there's no more frames to check, I have to face the fact that none of these photos were real. They're a curious collection of cut outs, stock photographs and old photos with unfamiliar names that she might have gotten at a flea market somewhere. There are only two actual, genuine photos in this entire flat – the one showing Mrs Weisz and myself and the one from the folder.

Which means… none of this was real.

It was all made up.

All just… tales. Tales about people who never existed.

Standing in the middle of the living room and staring at the unruly mess of pictures and frames all around me, I don't know what to do. I don't even know what to think.

I am saved from my own thoughts by a sudden commotion out on the street. Part of me is unwilling to face real life, but the bigger part is glad to have something else to focus on instead of the horrible truth of what I discovered.

Peering past the curtains, the first thing I notice is how dark it is. (Have I really been here all day?) Secondly, I realise that the amount of photographers has at least tripled. (Maybe the ambulance drew them here?) And lastly, I spot a collection of dark cars with tinted windows coming to a halt in front of the apartment. The reporters immediately go wild.

Could it be…?

Someone emerges from the passenger side of one car and I immediately recognise Hanson. And before he has even closed his car door, I am already sprinting into the hall, pressing the buzzer and opening the front door of the flat with my other hand.

It takes less than a minute for them to enter the building. I am vaguely aware of several figures clad in dark suits, but my eyes immediately focus on the one person they're surrounding.

"You can't keep coming here unannounced," I tell him, though my voice sounds all weird. "You have appointments to keep."

"You called Melissa and then you didn't answer your phone," he answers. "I was worried."

I want to apologise, but find that I can't speak. There's just a sob escaping my lips and I know I am only moments away from finally breaking down.

Ken guides me back into the flat and when one of the suits tries to follow us, I hear him mutter an annoyed "just this once!" The man backs off, the door closes and I practically collapse into his arms.

"She's… she's…" I almost can't say the word. "She's… dead." It feels all wrong in my mouth.

Wrapping his arms tighter around me, Ken makes soothing noises. But I don't want to be soothed. I want to _understand_.

"And I… I went looking for… for her family. To tell them. But there _is_ no family. They all died ages ago! She had no-one. All the pictures and all these stories… she made it all up. It was all… all wrong. Just tales. She didn't have children or grandchildren or anything. She… she had no-one," I manage around sobs. "She was _all alone_."

I look up at him, imploring him to understand even when I'm not making sense, and find his face etched with compassion and sadness alike. Raising a hand, he cradles my face, his thumb brushing away a tear that is immediately replaced by two new ones.

"She wasn't alone," he says quietly, touching his forehead to my own. "She had you."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Love Is Just a Four-Letter Word' (written by Bob Dylan, released by Joan Baez in 1968)._

* * *

 _A/N: I just want to take this moment to say a very special thank you to the amazing_ oz diva _, who's been my dedicated and faithful beta reader up until now. Due to a very exciting change in her life, she won't have time to continue her great work, which is why beginning with next week's chapter, beta reading duties will be taken up by the equally lovely_ Alinyaalethia _. Many thanks to both of you, for past and future help alike!_


	37. And I must leave

_New York City, USA  
May 2012_

 **And I must leave**

"Making progress?"

I raise my eyes from my textbook and look at Ken standing in the doorway.

"Who knows?" I shrug. "Sometimes, I feel like I am, and sometimes, I feel like I never learned anything at all in those four years."

"I'm sure you learned plenty," he assures loyally and crosses the kitchen to where I'm sitting on a barstool to wrap his arms around me.

"Tell that to my professors, please," I sigh.

I have final exams coming up next week and commencement the week after that. And after _that_ , God willing, I'm a real and proper college graduate.

"Sure," nods Ken with a grin. "Who do I call?"

I roll my eyes at him, but do little to suppress my own smile. "They'd probably get a heart attack." Then, raising my fingers for air quotes and adopting an affected tone, " _Please hold for the Prince of Wales._ "

"Would it help?" he asks, though clearly in jest.

With regret, I shake my head. "I doubt it. Nothing for it but to study some more."

"And I was just about to ask you to join us for another movie," Ken informs me. One of his hands trails lazy circles on my back and I cuddle closer to him almost out on instinct.

"Another one?" I query and cast a doubtful look at the clock. "It's Izzie's bedtime soon."

Ken doesn't seem fazed. "It's Saturday and besides, I already promised. And what impression would it leave it I broke the promise?"

Hmm… can't really argue with that.

"How are you enjoying the current movie so far?" I try to keep my voice innocent, but there's a smile creeping across my face.

He winces. "I've seen many an odd movie in my life, but this might take the cake," he admits, sounding pained. "On the surface, it's Dickens, but there are _muppets_ , for whatever reason. _Muppets_! It's like _Muppets Butcher A Christmas Carol_ or something. It has mice singing about starvation and a pig in a wig and _multiple_ Kermits!"

"Not your cup of tea then?" I'm laughing outright now, garnering me a glare and a poke in response.

" _Multiple Kermits_!" he insists, clearly close to despair.

"It's a classic," I inform him with relish. "And there are several similar ones, too! How about we put on _Muppet Treasure_ _Island_ next?"

He looks actually horrified. "Absolutely not!"

Grinning, I raise a hand to tap his nose. "No more muppets then… In that case, would you prefer the Disney movie that has a prince get turned into a frog instead?"

"Let's _not_ go there, okay?" pleads Ken with a comical little grimace.

"Not that one, then?" I make a show of appearing thoughtful and can see him eyeing me warily. "Well, we could always put on _Tangled_ and introduce you to your doppelganger…" (Izzie still insists he looks like Flynn Rider, for reasons only she understands.) "Or are you more of a _Beauty and the Beast_ -kind of guy?"

"In which scenario I'm the beast, I presume?" Ken deadpans.

I shrug and smile innocently. "You certainly aren't Beauty."

"No, that'd be you," he replies without missing a beat.

"Flattery, flattery," I singsong, but allow him to kiss me anyway.

We keep it sweet, mindful of the two children nearby, but are interrupted far too quickly anyway.

"Ken!" cries Izzie from the living room. "You miss _everything_!"

Groaning, Ken rests his forehead against mine. "Not much of a loss," he mutters.

I give him an encouraging smile, leaning back a little in his embrace. "He'll be back in a minute, sweetheart," I call to Izzie. Hopefully it'll be enough to stop her from coming to investigate where her new friend ended up.

While Jake is still markedly wary around Ken, Izzie has taken to him in typical exuberant fashion. Joy and Dan are away for the weekend, and with me roped into babysitting duties, there was nothing for it but to bring Ken along. Initially, I wasn't sure how well that would play out, but having seen him and Izzie sitting chummily on the couch earlier, it seems to have worked out quite well. Now there's just Jake to bring around, though I have a feeling that –

"Penny for your thought?" asks Ken.

I blink at him. "It's nothing." (The last thing I want is to antagonise Jake further by talking about him without his permission.)

Ken doesn't seem convinced, but doesn't press the issue. Instead, he moves a hand to brush a wisp of hair from my face. "Are you alright?" he asks. "I mean, because of…"

He trails off, but I know why he's asking. Earlier today, we finished cleaning out Mrs Weisz's flat and while it's been a month since her death, that added another layer of finality to it.

Ever since that awful day in April, Ken has been nothing short of wonderful. He postponed a week's worth of engagements so he could stay with me and help me organise the funeral, despite getting quite bit of grief over it from the press. (The funeral, incidentally, was when the photographers finally got their first picture of us together, if grainy and from some distance. It has me all pale and puffy-eyed, with my face half-hidden against Ken's coat, and him looking ahead all stony-faced. Without context, it's an odd picture, but it's been reproduced quite a bit since.) Except for the two of us, only Joy and Jake attended, which I believe they did more for me than for Mrs Weisz, who they knew only fleetingly.

When Mrs Weisz's will revealed me as her sole heiress and the landlord started piling on pressure on me to have her flat cleared out and ready for renovating by mid-May, Ken stepped up again. He arrived a few days ago and helped me sort through the contents the flat without complaint, even though it mostly consisted of him doing the work and me sitting on the sofa with a textbook, occasionally deciding whether something should be thrown away or donated. (For myself, I only kept the contents of the green folder and the framed photo of Mrs Weisz and me. What I want to do with the money she left me, I haven't decided yet.)

"I'm alright," I assure him with a smile.

It's not wrong either. I _am_ alright. I miss Mrs Weisz, especially in the evenings when I normally would have gone to hers for a hearty dinner, a good cup of coffee and a re-told romance story, but after a month, the sharpest grief has passed. Instead, it's a dull prodding that I'm slowly getting used to.

Strangely, the hardest thing to come to terms with wasn't even her death, it was her life. After thinking of her as having a large, if mostly absent family for so long, the revelation of her loneliness came as a shock that I needed a while to process. And though Ken assured me time and again that my presence must have done a lot to alleviate her isolation, I still can't help thinking I should have done more, been there more often. If only I had _known_ …

My train of thoughts must have shown on my face, because Ken shakes his head slightly. "Don't," he pleads quietly. "Don't do that again. It's not your fault. None of it is."

I sigh, letting my head drop forward against his shoulder. "If I only understood why she did it…"

The tales, I mean. The pictures of strangers and the fictional relatives. Everything she did to mask her real life.

"There's no way to know, now," Ken replies quietly. "I imagine she made them up to help against the loneliness. By the time you came into her life, she was so used to her own stories that she didn't know how to walk away from them."

We've been over this before, of course. More than once, actually. Every time, what he says sounds reasonable and every time, I still come back to the subject after a while.

"But she knew it wasn't true, right?" I ask, peering up at him.

This, too, has been discussed in depth, which probably means I'm looking for reassurance as much as anything.

"I believe so," nods Ken. "She had a sharp mind and was alert to the end."

And yet, there's no saying with part her psyche might have played. Which is really what it all boils down to: we can never truly know.

"Ken!" comes the insistent call from the living room and I know I'll have to put the subject to rest again.

Raising my head from his shoulder, I gently push Ken backwards. "Go, or you're liable to incur her wrath. I'll just finish up this chapter and join you for the next movie."

Ken nods, but only lets go of me when I've managed a smile that must have been halfway convincing. Dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose, he turns to re-join Izzie, leaving me with my textbook and my thoughts.

Once I've managed to shake off the most nagging questions, I make quite decent progress, too, finishing not only the chapter I was working through but the next one as well. It's only when the unmistakable opening cry of _The Lion King_ can be heard from the living-room that I shut the book with a smile and go to join them.

I find Izzie sitting on the floor in front of the TV, far closer than Joy would ever allow, while Ken is sprawled on the sofa. He raises his head to smile at me when I enter, while Izzie is obviously too enthralled with the various animals appearing on the screen to notice. (Never mind that she's seen the movie often enough to be able to recite it word for word.)

"Found something to watch, I see?" I ask Ken quietly as I settle into his welcoming embrace, my back against his chest and my head against his shoulder.

"It was strongly recommended," he mutters back, his arms closing around me from behind and pulling me into him.

On screen, Rafiki, the vaguely new age-ish (and almost certainly completely stoned) monkey, is currently blowing an ash-like substance into the face of poor Simba, before holding the bewildered cub up for all the other animals to bow to.

"You know," I whisper to Ken, "if you don't hold up your firstborn on the balcony of Buckingham Palace like that, I shall be severely disappointed."

When he doesn't immediately answer, I crane my neck to find him looking down at me. " _What_?"

He shakes his head, a smile creeping to his lips. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

I want to demand an answer, but he silences me with a quick peck to the lips. This is immediately followed by a stern "Shhhhhh!" from Izzie. Thus chastised, we both fall silent, sharing an amused glance as we do. I can feel Ken's body shake slightly with suppressed laughter.

We manage to be good about keeping quiet, too, until Simba breaks out into his grand solo number, _I Just Can't Wait to be King_.

"Foolish lion," murmurs Ken into my left ear.

I turn my head a little to look at him. "Don't share in the sentiment, do you?"

It was meant as a light, joking question, but his expression remains pensive. "The thing is that the day you become king is the day your father dies. _Le roi est mort, vive le roi_ ," he explains, his voice almost too soft to hear it. "No matter what the tabloids say, I wouldn't mind that day being on the other side of never."

Not knowing what to say, I twist around in his arms so I can touch his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

He gives me a reassuring smile in return, before pressing a quick kiss to the palm of my hand. "It's alright. Most people don't make the connection."

"Shhhh!" chides Izzie, throwing us an annoyed glare over her shoulder. (She looks _so_ like Joy when she does that!)

I look at Ken, trying to convey an apology with my eyes, but again, he just shakes his head. 'Later,' he mouths and perhaps that is truly a conversation we should be having at another time and in another place.

We remain quiet for the rest of the movie, except when Mufasa gets trampled to death and Ken quietly questions whether I'm _quite_ sure this is a children's movie. I can only point out that it wouldn't be a proper Disney movie if at least one parent didn't die a tragic and/or gruesome death (TM).

By the time Timon and Pumbaa make their appearance, I feel myself nodding off. When Ken pulls a blanket over both of us a few minutes later, I allow myself to fall into a light slumber. I finished going through one of the assigned readings for one of my English classes last night after Ken had fallen asleep and truth to be told, I'm pretty knackered.

It is, therefore, only when Simba has reclaimed his rightful kingdom, that Ken gently shakes me awake again. Izzie is already on her feet, surveying us with an irritated expression.

"Another one!" she demands.

Even half asleep, that makes me laugh. "Not a chance, young Miss. It's past your bedtime as it is."

Izzie pouts, and only just refrains from stomping her foot. "But I want another one!"

Tough luck, kid.

As I try to summon the strength for an argument with Izzie, Ken detangles himself from me and gets up from the sofa. Both Izzie and I turn to watch him fetch something from his bag sitting in a corner of the room.

"If you're good and go to bed now," he states as he returns to us, "we can watch this one tomorrow."

In his hands, I notice, he holds a plain silver CD, with one word scrawled upon it. _Brave_.

" _Brave_? That movies isn't even out yet," I remark and raise an eyebrow.

Izzie's face, however, visibly brightens when I say the name of the movie. She's seen the trailers and is quite impatient to finally watch it in full. (With the lead being a red-haired princess who knows her own mind, even Joy tentatively agrees.)

Ken grins at me. "I told you that being me has its perks."

Show-off!

Stretching my arms above my head, I get up from the sofa. "You heard him, Izzie. If you don't kick up a fuss about going to bed tonight, we can watch it tomorrow."

For a moment, Izzie looks at me speculatively, obviously considering whether there's a chance of her getting to see the movie today. I make my sternest face and she seems to sense that it's a fight she can't win.

"Promise!" she demands from Ken instead, and it's only when he's basically sworn on the life of his yet-to-be born firstborn (the one that will be held aloft the Buckingham Palace balcony) that she believes him and strolls off into the direction of the bathroom.

"Don't forget to brush your teeth," I call after her, but of course Izzie wouldn't be Izzie if she deigned to react.

Instead, I turn to Ken. "She'll want a bedtime story," I inform him. "Are you up for some reading? The current book should be on her bedside table, but don't let her talk you into reading more than one chapter."

(Izzie, to Mum's eternal delight, has discovered the written word for herself in recent months and always tries to coax or bully someone into reading to her.)

"Sure," agrees Ken easily.

I smile at him. "Great. Thanks. I'll go have a look at what Jake's doing."

Before walking over to Jake's room, I make sure that Ken and Izzie are comfortably settled in hers with a book and then go to tidy up the living room. I'm stalling, but in my defence, at least I _know_ that I am. That's got to count for something, right?

The problem is that I still have no idea how to tell Jake that I'm leaving. I can't put it off any longer though, because Mum and Dad are coming down next weekend for my graduation. There's a good chance they'll want to talk about my plans and what with how Mum hates secrets, I can't ask them to keep it from Jake. Plus, Ken says the tabloids are starting to make noises about what our future is going to look like and that Arlene expects one of them to break the story soon-ish. And I can't let Jake read about it in a paper first.

Besides… even if all of this weren't true, it's about time.

Fluffing up the last pillow, I'm left with no more excuses to put it off any longer, so make my way over to Jake's room. He refused to join us for movies this evening, citing homework. I'm reasonably certain that's not true, but I could hardly have told him to ignore his homework and go watch the muppets with us.

When, after a soft knock, I open the door, I find him sitting on his bed, an opened book in front of him. It doesn't look like a textbook (in fact, I'm reasonably sure it's Jules Verne's _Around the World in Eighty Days_ ), but this isn't what I came here to talk about.

"Hey, Huck. Can I come in?" I ask carefully, still hovering in the doorway.

Jake hesitates for a moment, but finally inclines his head slightly.

Sitting down next to him on the bed, I just manage to control the urge to ruffle his hair. He's nearly twelve now and I've noticed that some things he suffered politely at nine or ten aren't as well-appreciated anymore.

Either way, it's time to stop beating around the bush. "There's something I need to talk to you about."

A beat, before Jake turns to look at me. "You're moving to England," he states.

Right. That was unexpected.

(Or maybe, it wasn't. Maybe I had an inkling he'd figure it out. Maybe that's why I gave him ample time to do it.)

"So, you know that," I remark, quite needlessly.

Jake just gives me a _look_ , which leaves little doubt that, were he less his father's child, he'd tell me that _of course_ he knows, he's not stupid after all.

"Are you alright with it?" I ask tentatively.

He shrugs. "Your life. You can move to England if you want."

"I know I can," I nod. I'm not going to pretend to need his permission for it. "But I'd like to know what you think."

Another shrug. "Good for you."

I take a deep breath. (When did he stop being a sweet little boy anyway?) "Do you understand why I want to do it?"

"To be with _him_ ," is the immediate reply, accompanied by a little grimace.

"He's actually nicer than you give him credit for. Izzie likes him," I point out.

Jake throws me a disdainful glance. "Izzie _would_."

Yeah. Izzie would.

"He's very important to me," I tell him, changing tracks slightly. "And I have to move to be with him, because he can't move back here."

"Because he's a _prince_." Now, Jake's voice is full-blown mocking.

Okay, this is not going the way I would like it to.

"He is," I confirm, trying to remain calm. "Which is why his place is in England."

Jake is back to shrugging. "Sure. Whatever."

 _Definitely_ not the way I would like it to.

"I'm not doing this because I want to leave you, Jake." This time, I reach out a hand to lay it on his arm and he holds still, at least. "I just can't be in two places at once."

"Yeah," nods Jake. "Obviously."

For a moment, I close my eyes and try to order my thoughts. I used to be so much better at this.

"Look, how's this?" I suggest, after having opened my eyes again. "My visa doesn't become invalid until 60 days after graduation, which would be mid-July. That gives us a month after the school year finishes and we could, I don't know, spend time together. Just the two of us and maybe Izzie sometimes. We could pretend to be tourists and do all the crazy tourist stuff real New Yorkers never do. Go to Coney Island, take stupid-looking pictures in Time Square, get up Empire State Building, take a carriage ride through Central Park…"

I had originally planned to head for Halifax much earlier than that and I guess that staying in New York until mid-July will cut it rather close with regards to Betty's wedding, but I'm just hoping she'll understand. I _can't_ be in two places at once, so I'm just going to have to figure out a way that works for everyone. (Though of course, my grand plans rely on US immigration not giving me the boot before mid-July after all. But Dan said their lawyer was confident it would work out okay.)

Jake considers me out of the corner of his eye. "We could do that," he relents, careful not to be too enthusiastic.

"And you're all heading for the Island in late July as well, your Mum said," I add. "So we'll see plenty of each other over the summer."

"Until you move away," points out Jake.

(And here I was, thinking I was actually getting somewhere.)

"Until I move away," I repeat with a sigh. "Look, Jake, if you actually talked to him once, you'd see he's not so bad. I know he'd like to be friends."

He folds his arms in front of his chest. "I don't want to talk to him. I don't _have_ to talk to him. I've heard enough."

Frowning, I look at him, trying to decipher his meaning. "What are you talking about, Jakey?"

"I don't have the best track record," comes another voice from the door. "That's what you're saying, isn't it, Jake?"

In response, Jake folds his arms tighter and tucks his chin downwards, careful to keep his back to the door. Ken, meanwhile, comes closer, pulling out the chair from under Jake's desk and sitting down. (For a moment, I wonder whether he should have asked permission to enter, but chances are Jake would have denied it, so maybe it's for the best.)

"Izzie asleep?" I ask Ken quietly, hoping to give Jake a moment to adjust.

"Like a log," he confirms.

(Well, at least _one_ of Joy's kids like him, I guess?)

Another moment passes in silence as I watch Jake closely. He seems to be mulling over something, his mind going a mile a minute in the way Joy's does so often, until he suddenly bursts out, "She'll be all alone!"

Huh?

"She'll be all alone!" he repeats, before turning to stare at Ken accusingly.

He… he means me, right?

"Jake," I make sure to speak slowly, hoping to calm him. "I won't be alone. Ken will be with me."

Jake just scowls at Ken, not even acknowledging that I said anything.

Ken, in turn, watches him thoughtfully, seeming to weigh several possible remarks. Finally, he settles on, "I promise to look out for her."

"Like you've done so far?" Jake immediately shoots back.

I open my mouth to intervene, but Ken shakes his head very slightly, not even turning to look at me, and I close it again. If he feels that this is something they have to work through, I'm willing to give them a chance.

"You weren't there when the airport people held her, and you weren't there when they wanted to throw her out of the country, and you weren't there when these men with their cameras bullied her, and you weren't there when they wrote nasty things about her," Jake accuses. His eyes are brimming with tears now and it takes all I have not to reach over and hug him as tightly as I can, both to comfort him and to give myself something to hold on. He really is the sweetest boy imaginable.

Ken takes the onslaught calmly, but it seems to get him thinking. After a second or two, he turns to me, his lips soundlessly forming the words, 'That bad?'

I raise my left shoulder in the tiniest of shrugs.

"Yes," snaps Jake. "Yes it _was_."

"Hmh," makes Ken, nodding slowly. "And I wasn't there."

"That's what I _said_ ," stresses Jake.

They're both looking at each other now and for a moment, I might as well not be there. Then, suddenly, Ken gets up and walks over to Jake's desk, grabs pen and paper and scribbles something down. When he comes back, he offers the paper to Jake.

"Let's make a deal, Jake," he suggests. "This is my phone number. It's my private one and I'm the only one who ever answers it."

Jake, arms still folded, eyes the paper warily, refusing to take it.

"My promise to look out for Rilla still stands," adds Ken, "but you're right that I didn't always do well in the past, so I'm asking for your help. If I mess up again in the future, will you call me and tell me so?"

Slowly, Jake's eyes move from the paper up to Ken's face. "Will you listen?" he asks, clearly wary.

"Scout's honour!" Ken immediately replies, even raising his free hand as if for an oath. I have to suppress a smile.

Jake inclines his head to the side. After another long second of hesitation, he takes the paper from Ken, and nods curtly. "Deal."

Whether he wanted to add anything more to that, we will never know, because that's the moment when I reach out to ruffle his hair and draw him into the tightest of hugs.

"Rilla!" he protests, trying in vain to free his hands and pat his hair down. "You're so embarrassing!"

"Sorry, Huck," I reply with a laugh, catching Ken's smiling eyes over Jake's now unruly mop of hair. "I'm afraid you've earned it."

"What _for_?" grumbles Jake. (But even as he puts on a show of protest, I can feel him settle into the hug.)

Drawing back a little, I look down at his face. "That's an easy one. For being the most wonderful boy there is."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Farewell, Angelina' (written by Bob Dylan, released by Joan Baez in 1965)._

* * *

 _To Guest (from July 11th):_  
 _First of all, thank you for your review and my apologies for making you cry!_  
 _You're entirely right that loneliness is a real problem for many elderly people, yet it's one that is so often overlook. I sometimes feel us younger ones live in such a fast-turning world that it's easy to forget how lonely some people can be - not only the elderly, but often they especially._

 _To Guest (from July 12th):  
I generally post on Wednesday evening European time, which works out to midday or afternoon in North America, Wednesday to Thursday night in most of Asia, and Thursday morning in Australia. Depending on where you hail from, that should give you a good idea when to expect another chapter :).  
And I promise there's absolutely no need to analyse. I truly appreciate any and all reviews! And even just a short "I liked this" or "this didn't work for me" is absolutely helpful to me as a writer, because it lets me know when the writing hit the mark and where I can still improve it :). Also, I'm glad to hear that you understood Mrs Weisz's death. I didn't initially plan for her to die, but when the idea entered my head one day, I felt much the same way. It's sad, but it makes sense, doesn't it?_


	38. Cause that's the way for us to get along

_New York City, USA  
May 2012_

 **Cause that's the way for us to get along**

Leaning forward, I knock on the partition that is separating the front of the cab from the rear seats. "You can drop us off over there."

"Right away," assures our driver, a kindly middle-aged man who might have originally been from South Asia. The music playing in his car definitely reminded me of something I heard in a Bollywood movie before. It's very cheery.

When, with the cab stopped at the curb, it comes to paying, he turns to Dad with such certainty, that the question of who's going to pick up the fare doesn't even arise. I take the moment to peer up and down the street before opening the car door, but it looks to be empty.

"Are you sure we're at the right address?" asks Mum next to me, leaning over to look at our dimly-lit surrounding with some scepticism.

"Back entrance," I reply with a shrug and slip out of the car, holding the door open for her.

On the other side of the car, Dad is getting out as well. The cab speeds off, and as Dad comes to join us on the sidewalk, a smiling Mum informs him, "I fear our daughter is getting to be a little paranoid, Gilbert."

(Mum also laughed when we covertly changed cabs halfway through our journey, but then, what does Mum know?)

"I'm sure she has it all under control," replies Dad with a smile for Mum and a wink for me, before offering an arm for each of us to take.

We've just turned towards the (admittedly somewhat shady-looking) back entrance of the restaurant, when a dark figure steps from the shadows. I feel Dad tense beside me, but I've already recognized the man. (In fairness, I knew he'd be there.)

"Hello Hanson," I greet. "May I introduce you to my parents? Mum, Dad, this Hanson. He's part of Ken's security team."

"Good evening, Miss." Hanson inclines his head first at me, then at my parents. "Ma'am. Sir. I hope you had an agreeable journey?"

My parents just share a bemused glance, so I hurry to answer in their stead, "It was alright, thank you."

Hanson nods to acknowledge it, before reaching out to hold open the door for us and falling into step a respectful few meters behind as we walk down a nondescript corridor. (I've never been here before, but the corridor only offers one direction to walk and anyway, I reckon Hanson would tell me if I was heading the wrong way.)

Mum leans forward to get a look at me around Dad and hisses, "Why is he calling me Ma'am?"

"I think it's in his contract," I mutter back. "I once tried to make him call me Rilla."

"What did he say?" asks Dad quietly, amusement in his voice.

" _Very well, Miss_ ," I answer, lightly mimicking the British accent, making both my parents laugh. (When I cast a quick glance at Hanson over my shoulder, I think I see him suppressing a smile.)

The corridor comes to an end at a set of double doors that lead to the kitchen. There, a waiter kindly takes pity on us and ushers is through to the main dining room. The main dining room which is, I might add, absolutely deserted. All the tables are cleared, except for one right in the middle, which is set for four. (But with enough cutlery to serve at least eight people.)

My parents share yet another bemused glance, before slowly walking further into the room. Mum moves over to the windows, while Dad stops next to the set table. "There's no-one else here," he observes.

"Could you step back from the windows, please?" I ask Mum (windows are not our friends, after all), before turning to Dad. "I expect he booked the entire place."

"Of course I did. I didn't realise you were keen on an audience," chimes in a very familiar voice and I turn on the spot to see Ken standing in the doorway. Not deigning to answer him, I roll my eyes most expressively and his smile widens in response.

While Mum and Dad spent the day with Joy and family and I sat my exam on modern English literature, Ken was over at the British Consulate to get some work done. He must have changed there, too, because instead of the jeans and t-shirt he got dressed in this morning, he's now wearing a pair of dark chinos and a button-down. He looks nice.

Coming over, Ken lightly brushes his hand along my arm as he passes me, before turning to Dad. "Good evening, Dr Blythe."

He offers his hand first to Dad to shake and then to Mum, who's _finally_ stepped back from the windows. "And good evening, Dr Blythe," he adds with a smile at her.

I can see how pleasantly surprised Mum is at being addressed such. No-one ever denies Dad his title, but she's been 'Mrs Blythe' far too often in life, despite her PhD arguably harder earned than his MD. (Which, let's face it, is just handed out to medical students anyway.)

Dad replies, somewhat belatedly, "Good Evening, Your Royal Highness."

"Please," Ken quickly intervenes, "call me Ken. No need for the formalities."

"You were the one throwing titles around first," I point out to him, making sure to look my most innocent.

Ken flashes a grin my way. "That's because I'm also the one trying to make a good impression," he retorts, not missing a beat.

"You're not doing too bad a job so far," Mum informs him with a smile. "And you must call me Anne."

"Gilbert," Dad quickly adds.

(This is going rather well, isn't it?)

"I will. Thank you," agrees Ken. "May I also say that I'm very glad to finally meet you? In fact –" He holds up what looks to be a book, which I hadn't noticed before, and presents it to mum.

"I planned to bring flowers, but then I stumbled upon this and thought it more fitting," he explains.

Evidently surprised, Mum nevertheless accepts the book. It's bound in blue leather and looks quite old-ish.

As Mum inspects her present, I lean closer to Ken. " _Stumbled upon_? When? During your weekly sojourns to rare book stores?" I tease him, keeping my voice low.

He laughs quietly. "Oh, ye of little faith."

Yeah, that's me.

" _The Secret Garden_!" Mum exclaims, holding up the book. "How clever!"

(I know from looking at her that she's itching to find out whether it's a first edition, but is too polite to do so. I could have told her without looking. When he decides to do them, Ken's gestures are rarely small.)

"The way to my wife's heart is through books," Dad informs Ken conspiratorially, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"So I've been told," admits Ken, nodding towards me as the culprit.

"And such a lovely book at that," Mum chimes in. "Thank you, Ken."

"My pleasure." Then, with a nod towards the table, "Shall we?"

As my parents sit down on one side of the table, Ken moves to pull out a chair for me, but I swat his hand away. "There's making a good impression and there's overdoing it," I tell him, sotto voce, raising both eyebrows to comical heights. It's not like he usually does this, after all.

(But when we're seated, I reach for his hand underneath the table and he clasps mine tightly for a moment.)

"I hope it's alright that I pre-ordered a menu?" Ken asks as waiters materialise out of nowhere to fill our glasses and set plates with starters in front of us. "When there are so few guests, it's quite an inconvenience for the restaurant to have ingredients for all dishes on the menu available."

"No problem at all," Mum quickly assures.

(It _is_ going well, I think, but there's still something stilted about the entire situation that I never noticed when one of my siblings brought their partner home. They just got absorbed into the general melee, which I guess isn't quite possible here.)

"So, are you staying for Rilla's commencement, Ken?" Dad wants to know as he picks up a piece of avocado with his fork.

Ken shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. In fact, I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Ken has to return to London to prepare for an official tour starting next week," I interject. Then, turning to Ken, "You're going to the Caribbean, aren't you?"

"I am. It's a three-week tour involving eight Commonwealth countries and some BOTs, so there's going to be a lot of island-hopping," he elaborates.

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. "BOTs?"

"Those would be British Overseas Territories, correct? Places like the British Virgin Islands or the Cayman Islands?" replies Dad instead of Ken, who nods confirmation.

"I imagine there'll be a lot of flying involved for you," Mum remarks.

Ken carefully cuts a prawn in half before answering. "Actually, they've sent the yacht ahead. I'll be joining it in Trinidad and flying home from Antigua at the end of the tour."

"The yacht," repeats Mum, something akin to wonder in her voice.

"It's the most convenient way for everyone involved," Ken is quick to explain. "It gives my staff and me a permanent place to stay, which makes things a lot easier for them than if we were to change hotels every other night. Security is also much more manageable when it's just one place to protect and not a succession of changing ones. And we're not disrupting traffic at yet another airport every new day."

His reply came readily enough, but watching him from the side, I can see his eyes slide over to me as he speaks. It's not exactly a call for help, but I know it must be uncomfortable for him to talk about his royal life and how it makes him unique, when he's really trying to fit in, booked-out restaurants and first editions notwithstanding.

Taking it upon myself to steer the subject away from the logistics or a royal tour, I cheerfully inform him, "I'm expecting a postcard, by the way. And a souvenir."

"Sure. Any preferences?" asks Ken with a smile.

I raise my shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "No. Surprise me. It can be my graduation present."

"What makes you think I don't already have one?" he replies, not missing a beat.

Hm.

"If you do, you can keep one of them for next year," I decide after a moment of thought. "I'm counting on you not being somewhere foreign and exotic _then_."

"Unlikely," he agrees. His face is straight, but there's both amusement and affection in his eyes.

Popping a piece of mango into my mouth, I turn to look at Mum and Dad, only to find them watching us with interest.

"Are you looking forward to Oxford, darling?" asks Dad, obviously quite willing to roll with the change of subject.

Mum sets her cutlery aside and gives him a _look_. "It's Oxford, Gilbert. _Sweet city with her dreaming spires_. _Towery city and branchy between towers_. _Of course_ she's looking forward to it!"

(Those are poems, right? It must be poems.)

" _Gray spires of Oxford against a pearl-gray sky,_ " adds Ken beside me.

Mum immediately perks up at this. "Such a sad poem! But the use of contrast is poignantly done."

Goodness, she's not going to turn all English professor on us now, is she?

Catching Dad's eye over the table, I can see silent laughter evident on his face. Without a doubt, he knows exactly what I am thinking.

"I am, in fact, looking forward to Oxford," I declare, before Mum can start talking about iambs and trochees. Almost an afterthought I add, "Though Di did her best to sour the anticipation."

"What did she say?" Mum wants to know, her voice suddenly worried. She hates it when her children have disagreements.

But my brain has caught up with my mouth by now, and, acutely aware of Ken sitting next to me, I'm not so sure I want to discuss this after all. "Oh, you know. Words," I therefore reply airily, waving my fork around for good measure and hoping they'll let it go.

No such luck.

Dad makes a thoughtful sound. "Don't be too hard on her. I imagine your acceptance to Oxford stung a little."

I frown at him. "Why _would_ it? It's not like she ever applied to Oxford herself."

"No, but before graduating from UBC, she applied to a master's program at Cambridge and wasn't accepted. She was quite crushed for a while," he answers. "She's happy in Winnipeg now, but your admission to Oxford must have brought those memories back."

Really?

I didn't know that.

But it _does_ go a long way to explain Di's hostility.

"Well, the more you know…" I remark with an awkward little shrug, mostly because I have no idea what else to say.

"Alas," Dad continues amiably, "you're forbidden from mentioning that you've heard about this from me. Should you let it slip, I will strenuously deny everything. I will also tell everyone about that one time when you –"

"Yes, yes!" I interrupt quickly. "It's alright. My lips are sealed. I'm not saying anything!"

(I have no idea where he intended to take this, but I prefer never to find out.)

At least I've managed to amuse everyone else, because there's laugher rising around the table that only intensifies when I glare at them all in turn. (But laughter is good, right? Even if it's at my expense. Laughter means it's going well.)

"So, Ken," begins Mum after they've all calmed down again and our starter plates have been replaced by the main course, "Rilla told me you went to Oxford before."

I have half a mind that she knows the answer from her research into the royal family, but I appreciate that she pretends not to. I know Ken prefers to just talk to people normally instead of having them repeat his own life back at him.

Lowering his fork, piece of meat and all, Ken answers, "Yes, I attended Balliol College, but that was a while ago. It's been… six years since I graduated."

"What did you do afterwards?" Dad wants to know, sounding actually interested. (I don't think Dad did any research. It's not his style.)

"Mostly military training," replies Ken after quickly swallowing his forkful of food. "Two years of officer schools – Army at Sandhurst, Navy at Dartmouth and Air Force at Cranwell – followed by two years of pilot training. I just managed to finish advanced jet training before they pulled me for the UN internship."

Mum and Dad share a glance (though seriously, couldn't they have _guessed_ this?), before Mum brightly asks, "And are you heading for Balliol again?"

"We're both attending Oriel," I intervene, throwing both my parents a warning look.

"That's a happy coincidence," remarks Mum, smiling at me to show that she understood.

"Not much of a coincidence," Ken amends. "I asked them to stick me in whatever college they assigned Rilla to."

This is news to me.

Setting down the glass I'd just picked up, I turn to Ken and open my mouth to protest –

But he's faster. " _Only_ the college and _only_ after they already accepted you, anyway. I promised, didn't I?"

"You _did_ promise," I agree, though continue to eye him a little warily.

"Isn't the college assigned on admission?" wonders Dad from across the table. (Thanks, Dad!)

Turning towards my parents, Ken nods. "Normally, yes. But with me, these things tend to work a little differently. I indicated that I'd like to do their Public Policy course and they were happy to accept, especially since it's a new course and it means added publicity for them. We dealt with the details later, at which point I asked to be assigned to Rilla's college."

"You got a place without even applying properly? And the press hasn't _crucified_ you for that yet?" My voice skips over itself in disbelief. (I don't have to think hard about the headlines they'd write about _me_!)

Ken shrugs. "I've always been a good enough student that they never manage to dig up any proof. And besides, it's an open secret that Oxford has VIP places."

"VIP places?" I repeat, watching him through slightly narrowed eyes. If it's an open secret, no-one thought to share it with me.

"A small contingent of places they set aside for prospective students who might not fulfil all the qualification criteria, but to whom they'd like to offer a place anyway," explains Ken. "I'd rather they give me one of those and bump down the child of a major donor or something than take one of the normal places from someone who worked hard for it."

Which is surely very noble of him, but that's not my main take away here. Because 'prospective students who might not fulfil all the qualification criteria, but to whom they'd like to offer a place anyway' sounds pretty familiar. And I might not be a very important person – or even just an important one – but isn't there a chance I got offered one of these places as well? Which means… I really need to talk to Di about this!

My parents have followed our exchange silently, but when neither Ken nor I add to it, Mum ventures forward again. "Do you two intend to stay in college accommodation?"

I shake my head no, just as Ken answers, "We won't. They're a security nightmare and besides, I think we've outgrown college digs. My staff are scouting for a suitable property for us at the moment." Then, in a quiet aside to me, "Melissa will send you some portfolios soon. Just tell me when you get them and we can talk."

"Sure," I agree, making sure not to look at Mum and Dad. (So much for fitting in.)

But Dad appears to be pondering something else anyway. "I guess now would probably be the moment for me to give you a stern talk about my baby girl moving in with you –"

" _Dad_!" I groan.

"– and I certainly gave one to Jerry Meredith," Dad continues, unperturbed. "But I must say, the bigger part of me is almost glad for it."

" _Really_?" asks Mum, sounding as surprised as I feel. Dad's never been the type to 'coincidentally' clean his shotgun when we brought boyfriends over (or, really, the type to own a shotgun in the first place), but deep down, we all know he feels protective of us.

"To be clear, I am still uncomfortable with the thought," Dad clarifies, "but when I think back over the past few months… let's just say I will sleep easier knowing there are well-trained police officers guarding your front door from now on, Rilla."

"You and me both," Ken agrees quietly.

Frowning, I look between them, unsure whether to be touched that they care or put out because they think I need to be protected.

"If you mean the reporters, I have it all under control," I finally tell them, jutting my chin out at I do. "I mean, sure, there was that one time back in February, but I still maintain they asked for it, never mind what _other people_ might think." This with a challenging look at Ken. "Other than that, I'm doing perfectly fine, thank you very much."

Another sigh from Ken. "They _were_ asking for it. Arlene got hold of the uncut video and… you're right. They were asking to be shouted at."

Oh? _Now_ he tells me?

"They're right, sweetheart," Mum intervenes, probably sensing that I am gearing up to give Ken some choice words. "You're handling this beautifully, but we'll all be relieved to know you aren't facing all these men in your own anymore."

Hm… can't really argue with that, can I? (Even less so since I will also be glad not to have to face them alone in the future. Though, of course, I couldn't possibly _say_ that.)

"Well, I suppose so," I admit, making sure to sound reluctant. "But I'm staying in New York for another two months, so you're all going to have to live with that."

"Isn't Betty's wedding in July?" wonders Mum, her brows knitting into a frown.

"Late July," I amend. "It's cutting it a bit close, but I talked to her and she's fine with it. After that, I'm coming to the Island with you, before flying to England in August."

 _England!_ (How weird this still sounds.)

Mum nods, her expression thoughtful. Then, apparently having decided on something, "You should come, too, Ken. Meet the rest of the family."

What?

"What?" This from Dad, who stares at Mum, clearly as flabbergasted as I feel.

Ken, however, just shakes his head slightly, smiling to himself. "I thank you for your offer and I'd love to take you up on it, but… me travelling anywhere is quite an operation. I couldn't possibly impose it on you."

"Security," I add by way of explanation.

But Mum is not so easily derailed. "What are we talking here?"

Taking a deep breath, Ken answers, "The Canadian government needs to be informed, though of course we can do that. Security would need to search your house and put up safety measures while I'm there. And I always have to have at least three protection officers near me, day and night, which means there has to be suitable accommodation for them."

"We could put them in the garden shed," Mum replies matter-of-factly.

Ken's face as he hears this is enough to make me laugh. He's clearly trying – and failing – to find a polite way to tell Mum that his officers can't be put up in a shed and it's quite a sight.

Putting him out of his misery, I explain, "The garden shed is a converted studio, with its own kitchen and bathroom. It's a perfectly lovely place. My grandma Bertha usually stays there."

"But we could have Shirley room with Walter and put Mother in Shirley's room. Couldn't we, Gilbert?" With precision, Mum's elbow lands in Dad's ribs.

Covering his yelp with a cough, Dad gives her a disgruntled look. "Best put the boys in Shirley's room and Bertha in Walter's. It's much more orderly," he suggests anyway, which is all I need to tell me that he's on board – if reluctantly.

Turning to Ken with what I'm sure is an unashamedly hopeful smile, I ask, "What do you say? Can you come?"

He takes a moment before he answers, briefly brushing his fingertips along my face as he considers the offer. "I'd have to ask Oliver, my private secretary, to reshuffle my diary and I'd need to be back in time for the Dieppe commemorations –"

(Dieppe? Wasn't that where great-uncle Matthew died?)

"– but if nothing unforeseen happens and if they don't need me to pitch in for my mother at short notice…" he hesitates for the briefest of seconds, "I think I could manage to clear a week or two. If you're sure it's not too much of an inconvenience for you, that is."

"Not at all," assures Mum. "Right, Gilbert?" This, accompanied by another elbow.

"Not at all," parrots Dad. Then he winks at me and I know it's alright.

Propriety forgotten, I throw my arms around Ken and feel him return the hug, if in a more reserved way.

"You won't regret it, you'll see. It'll be fun," I promise.

"I'm sure it will be," agree Ken and presses the briefest of kisses on my temple before letting go of me again.

Sitting back down, I cast a quick glance at my parents. Mum is smiling. Dad is looking like he's trying hard not to.

"So, it's a plan," Mum decides, sounding quite pleased with herself.

It is. And if the Queen ruins it by having one of her bad spells again…

As if reading my thoughts, Mum moves on to ask, "Since you mentioned her, Ken… Is your mother doing better? I read about her being unwell in the papers a few weeks ago."

Besides me, Ken stiffens and I stretch out a hand to squeeze his knee. Immediately, he reaches down to cover my hand with his own.

"She's recovering, thank you," he replies. His voice it polite enough, but doesn't invite any further questions. "She is resting at home and the last time I spoke to her, she'd just started on a new book she was quite excited about. Which reminds me – did you know that she enjoyed your books? She used to read them to my siblings when they were younger."

"Really?" asks Mum, obviously at a loss of what else to say.

Ken, back in his element, smiles at her. "Yes, really. She considered them both entertaining and educational. Rilla told me you have another one in the works?"

And just like that, I realise, he's done it. For the rest of the main course and all throughout dessert, he keeps my parents talking, turning from Mum's books to Dad's work at the hospital and back to Mum's experiences of teaching at university. If my parents suspect he's at least partly doing it because he doesn't want to talk about himself anymore, they don't let it show.

By the time the empty dessert plates are cleared, we're all laughing at tales about Mum's students and any stiffness that may have been noticeable earlier in the evening is but a distant memory. I can now safely say that it _is_ going well. Better than expected, even.

"That was delicious. Thank you, Ken," says Mum as she leans back in her chair.

"I'll be sure to pass it on to the chef," promises Ken. "I hope you haven't made any other plans for the evening though? Because I have a bit of a surprise still left."

I sit up straighter and turn to look at him. "You didn't tell me about any surprises!"

"Wouldn't have been a surprise if I had, would it?" he replies with a smile that grows into a laugh when, upon realising I can't argue with that, I make a hmpf-ing sound and fold my arms in front of my chest.

"Anyone up for it?" he asks, looking at my parents questioningly.

Dad shrugs, then nods. "Sure. My wife loves a good surprise."

That settles that.

After profusely thanking the restaurant staff, we pile out of the back entrance, where Ken's security people have lined up three dark cars with the motors already running. We get into the middle one, with Ken in the passenger seat and the rest of us in the back. ("For security reasons. They need to get him out quickly if anything happens," I explain to Dad quietly. His reply is a pointed, "And we're expendable?" To which Mum answers, "To the British Crown? Sure we are." And who can argue with that?)

The driver gives us quite a comprehensive tour of Manhattan, which almost as brightly lit by day as it is by night. It's only when we pass Times Square and continue south along 7th Avenue that I have an idea where we might be heading. And yes –

"Anne got _The Secret Garden_ , but I thought you'd prefer this one, Gilbert," states Ken, turning around in his seat to look at us just as the rectangular front building of Madison Square Garden comes into view.

"Who's playing?" I ask, angling forward to get a better look.

Dad beats Ken to the answer. "The Stones are. It's their first tour in five years. I tried to get tickets, but it was impossible. It's all sold out." His expression is caught somewhere between hopeful and dumbstruck.

"Well," I inform Dad kindly, squeezing his arm, "there are perks to being him."

And there most definitely are. Not only are we greeted at the back entrance by a very eager man introducing himself as the assistant manager, we are then led up to one of MSG's main VIP suites that overlook the entire arena and provide excellent views of the stage. As he takes in the scene in front of him, Dad looks like a child at Christmas. Even Mum seems impressed.

Feeling Ken wrap his arms around me from behind, I lean back into him. "And here I thought you wanted to be treated like any normal guy…" I almost have to shout to be heard over the noise the thousands of other people are making in their anticipation.

I feel, more than I hear, his laugh. "I'll work on normal later. For now, I want to make a good impression and I'd be a fool if I didn't try all options available to me." A beat, before he adds much quieter, his lips close to my ear, "I really want them to like me."

With a look at my parents standing at the railing, I let the evening flash through my mind, before angling my head backwards and giving Ken a quick kiss. Then, with a smile, "You know what? I really think they do."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Prodigal Son' (written by Robert Wilkins, released by The Rolling Stones in 1968)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _I promised you more fluffy chapters coming up, didn't I? ;) And there are quite some more in everyone's immediate future, because having Rilla and Ken on the same continent is definitely conducive to fluffiness!  
Your nephews made me laugh. That's really cute, looking out for you like that! And it's very like Jake, too. He definitely isn't won over by Ken __yet, but like your nephews, I imagine he will come around._ _Let's never forget that Ken can give him VIP access to museums all over England!  
Yes, 'Clouds' does have a lot of war and everything and I absolutely understand that war stories are not everyone's cup of tea. I'm glad you think it well-written though :). And let me tell you a secret: I originally planned to write another WW1-centric story directly after it, but when I was done with 'Clouds', I kind of figured it was time to think some happy thoughts and... here we are ;). _


	39. And now I guess we're home

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
July 2012_

 **And now I guess we're home**

"So, Rilla, when's Prince Charming making his grand entrance?" asks Jem jovially and pokes me in the ribs.

Turning to glare at him, I snap, "Don't call him that!"

Jem just grins. "Why not? _Isn't_ he charming?"

"More charming than you are, for sure," I tell him darkly. "Not that that's much of a feat."

My brother, however, is not to be deterred. "That's my point. He's charming and he's a prince. Why would I not call him Prince Charming?"

"Because," Faith chimes in from his other side, "we could call you Doctor Strange on those very same grounds and yet, you don't see us doing it either."

To his credit, Jem reacts to that by bursting out laughing. "Good one!"

It is, too. Not that I have any idea who Doctor Strange is, but if mention of him makes my big brother shut up, I'm prepared to feel charitable towards him.

Leaning around Jem, I mouth a quick "thank you" to Faith, who winks in returns.

"If I'm Doctor Strange, Rilla has to be Scarlet Witch," declares Jem in that moment. It's clear the he's trying to hassle me for his own amusement, but God knows I've been called a red-headed witch by the press too often to care anymore.

"Who's that?" I ask Faith instead, making a point to appear unruffled.

"A comic book character," is her reply. "One of the X-Men. She has the power to change reality at will."

Ah, would that I could _really_ do that…

"I'll take it," I decide with a shrug and turn back towards the window.

As I let my eyes roam the street for any kind of movement, I am vaguely aware of Jem and Faith bickering about who she is in this odd comic book line-up we appear to have going. He seems to make a case for someone called Night Nurse, which Faith protests most vocally. (She's right, too. She's no less a doctor than he is!)

Letting their voices fade to become part of the general background noise, I allow my thoughts to wander.

It's been weeks since I've seen Ken and, though I'd never admit it to Jem, I'd also like for him to arrive soon, please. He managed to come to New York for just a few days in June, between Trooping the Colour and Garter Day. Even before that, the press had been giving him an increasingly hard time about his, and I quote, "Big Apple sojourns" and they sure as anything didn't hold back their opinions about _this_ visit. And while it was a very lovely few days for the two of us, it wasn't nearly enough. (How odd to think that soon, I will wake up next to him every morning!)

With Ken returned back to England and his royal duties, I spent June and half of July with Jake and Izzie, as promised. We did all the weird tourist-y things we could think of and even went to see Merida in cinemas, despite Ken having left Izzie the DVD. Still, she insisted and Izzie always gets her will in the end.

In more mundane matters, I also spent too many days clearing out my apartment and carting my furniture off to be donated to charity. (Personally, I would have liked to have sold it on to the next tenant. But Ken said to de-personalise the apartment as much as possible before handing it over, to minimise the effect of the "How the royal girlfriend lives" stories. It's not something I could argue with, either.) A memorable Monday and Tuesday was spent overseeing Ken's people as they replaced the bulletproof windows with breakable ones and the blastproof door with one that doesn't weigh two tons.

Once the apartment was emptied, I lived at Joy's for another week or so, which ended up involving many late nights and too much popcorn and wine. I finally headed back to Halifax one the very last day before my visa ran out and made it with two days to spare before Betty's wedding. Which I know makes me a bad bridesmaid, but Betty was first too stressed and then too blissed out to notice anyway. (Mollie gave me a bit of grief over it, but Mollie also talked to a reporter. It wasn't anything controversial, but it provided me with a way to shut her up.)

The press, of course, found out about the wedding and turned up for it. They barely took half a dozen pictures of bride and groom, but I can live secure in the knowledge that the world has seen my bridesmaid dress from all possible angles now. One paper even printed a picture of me at the wedding next to one taken at Mrs Weisz's funeral and headlined it, "A wedding and a funeral", which is just tasteless in the extreme.

The wedding successfully over and Betty and Liam waved off to their Caribbean honeymoon, I accompanied my parents to the Island, with my siblings trickling in during the next few days.l. Which brings me to this moment, standing by the window, waiting impatiently for my boyfriend to finally make an appearance.

But the street still remains frustratingly bereft of life. There aren't even any reporters there, though that, I admit, is a most welcome change. I only had a reduced contingent follow me to Halifax and those few that decamped to the Island with me disappeared after two days. I reckon they realised that the chances of me drunkenly falling out of a nightclub were rather slim here and, with no juicy story in sight, decided to spend their time elsewhere. (Well, joke's on them, right?)

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Hanson stepping out from under a copse of trees and turn my head to look closer. Doesn't it look like he's talking into a mobile phone?

(Hanson was sent ahead, together with a new agent called Butcher, which is really an unfortunate name for a police officer, if you stop to think about it. They set up security measures at Ingleside, prepared the garden shed for their own accommodation and hired all rooms at Miss Cornelia's B&B for the agents not on duty. As Ken said, it's quite an operation.)

I take a step back from the window. Vaguely, I am aware of Jem and Faith both turning to look at me questioningly, but decide to leave them to their comic book-related bickering.

Before I get any further though, I feel someone come up behind me and peer over my shoulder. "Is he coming?" asks Mum.

"I think so." And indeed, when look out of the window again, I can see two dark SUVs pull up in front of the house.

(I once told Ken that he could move around much more inconspicuously in an orange Clio, but he just smiled and nodded in a way that left me wondering whether he even knew that Clio wasn't just a Greek muse. I guess it's not the kind of car that registers on his radar.)

"Prince Charming has arrived!" Jem announces helpfully, rocking back on his heels and grinning at me.

Briefly, I consider telling him off, but then decide to leave it to Faith and make my way over to the front door instead. By the time I've opened it, Ken has already climbed out of the first SUV. When he looks up and sees me, his face immediately lights up.

His security people swarm around him, while Beckett hurries over to confer with Hanson. None of them make any attempt to follow Ken up the steps of the veranda though. Instead, one takes position near the gate and two begin circumnavigating the house, which I guess is all the privacy we could possibly hope for.

"Hey," I greet Ken and reach out both hands for him to take. The moment he does, I tug to draw him closer.

"Hey yourself," he replies, briefly bending down to press a chaste kiss to my lips.

It's all I can do not to throw my arms around him. However, acutely aware of his officers behind him and my family behind me, I settle for beaming at him and lightly swinging our clasped hands between us.

Not that we would have gotten much of a chance for a proper greeting anyway, because all too soon, there's someone pointedly clearing their throat right behind me.

Dad!

I turn to glare at him, but he looks right past me. (At least he isn't wearing a sparkly #TeamRilla t-shirt again, like he and Mum did at graduation? Those were _so_ embarrassing!)

Letting go of one of my hands, Ken stretches out his for Dad to shake. "Hello Gilbert."

"Ken," acknowledges Dad. Beside him, Mum is rolling her eyes and I have to suppress a smile.

"Hello Ken," she greets much more warmly, grasping his hand between both of hers for a moment. "How was your flight?"

"Uneventful, if delayed a bit," Ken replies. "I'm sorry for not being on time."

Mum waves the apology aside with a flourish of her left hand. "Nonsense. It's hardly your fault. We all know how stressful long-haul flying can be. That reminds me – do you need a moment to refresh or rest before we let the rest of our brood loose on you?"

"Where are they anyway?" I wonder, peering past my parents into the suspiciously empty hall.

"Your mother sent them to wait in the garden," explains Dad.

Mum nods, adding, "They were hovering."

They would have been. They've been pretending to act all suave about this, but I know they're curious, the lot of them.

"I'm alright," Ken assures Mum in that moment, circling back to her earlier question. "If I could just drop off my luggage somewhere…"

I want to ask what luggage, but then he signals towards one of the PPOs, who produces a suitcase from one of the cars and carries it over. "Where do you need this, Sir?"

But Ken merely stretches out his hand for it. "Thanks. I'll take it from here."

The PPO nods respectfully before withdrawing again, taking up position by one of the cars.

"How many protection officers do you have with you?" asks Dad with a nod towards the men in question.

Ken looks a little uncomfortable, but answers anyway. "There are eight here with me right now. I never have less than three accompany me whenever I go outside. More, if circumstances call for it."

The curious part of me would like to ask what 'circumstances' means, but the sensible part knows it's not a subject he wants to talk about much longer, so I tug at the hand still firmly wrapped around mine and suggest, "Shall I show you upstairs?"

"You do that, sweetheart," replies Mum in Ken's stead. "I'll tell the others that you will be down shortly."

Nodding, I quickly lead Ken past my parents and along the hall. It's only when we're at the top of the stairs that, upon hearing Dad's voice, I hesitate briefly. Putting a finger to my lips, I signal for Ken to remain quiet, then lean over the banister a little, the better to catch what is being said.

"Do we really need to put him up in her room?" Clearly Dad's voice. "We couldn't have put him with one of the boys."

Mum's reaction is to break out into peals of laughter. "Don't be ridiculous, Gilbert!"

Dad makes a grumpy sound. "I'm not being ridiculous!"

"Yes you are," declares Mum. "They've know each other for almost two years and anyway, she's had boyfriends before him."

Geez. Thanks for the reminder, Mum.

"But we never had to put them up in our house. In her room, no less!" protests Dad.

"Then there's a first time for everything, wouldn't you say?" Mum replies mercilessly. "And now, out with you! Don't forget to ask Jerry to fire on the barbecue."

That conversation over, I silently point Ken towards my bedroom. The moment the door falls shut behind us, I am caught up in his arms and kissed as thoroughly as he probably intended to do from the beginning.

Mmm.

 _This_ is nice.

But then the faint sound of laughter wafts up through the opened window, pulling me back into reality again. Moving my hands from Ken's hair to his shoulders, I lightly push him back an inch or two.

"I must warn you. Someone will come get us in ten minutes, tops." My voice is still a little breathless and I'm perfectly aware that I'm doing little to back up my words.

Ken considers me for a moment, before breaking out into a devilish grin. "Is that a challenge?"

Laughing, I duck out from beneath his arm. "Hardly! Just the opposite, actually. Behave!"

I can feel his eyes following me, but he himself stays put. "I will. Even more so as your father already doesn't like me."

"Oh, he likes you fine," I reply with a shrug. "He just dislikes me not being twelve anymore. I'm the youngest girl and I guess that makes it a little harder for him to adjust than with the others."

Ken nods thoughtfully. "So long as he _does_ adjust…"

"He will," I promise. "In the meantime, we have Mum to keep him in check."

"Thankfully," agrees Ken. Then, with a look around the room, "Do I get a tour?"

That draws a laugh from me. The room is cute, but it does not hold any hidden surprises and is hardly what you'd call sizeable either. (Another disadvantage of being one of the younger children – you don't get a say when it comes to room distribution.)

"Desk, chair, shelves, door, bed, wardrobe, window" I point out, turning on an imaginary axis as I point towards the individual pieces of furniture. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

But before he gets a chance to answer, there's a knock on the door.

"That wasn't ten minutes," points out Ken quietly as he takes a step backward, further into the room.

"I said, ten minutes, _tops_ ," I murmur back, before calling out, "Come in!"

"I'm not sure. Is everyone decent?" comes Shirley's muffled reply.

With an exasperated huff, I cross the room in three steps and rip open the door. "Everyone most certainly is! And besides, do I really need to remind you of that time when _I_ stumbled upon _you_ and Mina Wood below the bleachers?"

Shirley grimaces. "No, let's not recap that."

"Thought so." I nod briskly. "And now shoo. We're coming."

But instead of leaving, Shirley looks past me to nod at Ken. "I'm Shirley."

"Prototype of all annoying younger brothers anywhere," I supply.

Ken smiles. "How do you do, Shirley?" Then, as if just remembering, "I'm Ken."

"Yeah." Shirley nods. "I kind of knew that."

"Excellent," I remark a little sarcastically. "Could we please get moving now?"

My brother raises an amused eyebrow at me, but thankfully remembers he's not actually a man of many words and turns around to trudge down the stairs without complaint.

Looking at Ken, I ask, "You up for meeting the rest of them?"

"Can't wait," he smiles. (Which might be a tad naïve of him, but I'm not about to point that out.)

The smell of the barbecue gets stronger as we make our way downstairs, causing me to lean towards Ken and remark, "I hope you're in the mood for meat? Mum organised a barbecue as 'a relaxed way for everyone to mingle'. And yes, I'm absolutely quoting."

"I was taught early to eat everything appearing on my plate," answers Ken and shrugs. "There's nothing more awkward than being guest of honour at a state dinner and having to let the Finnish President know that reindeer meat isn't really your thing."

"Reindeer?" I repeat, wrinkling my nose. "You mean you've eaten Rudolph?"

"Maybe," replies Ken. "I didn't ask them for the name of the animal I was eating. Might as well have been Dancer or Prancer."

As I lead Ken into the kitchen, I ponder that for a moment. "Well, I'm not feeling sorry for _them_. They were mean to poor Rudolph."

"Serves them right to be eaten," agrees Ken with a grin.

"It does," I nod, before pushing open the back door leading out to the garden.

Dotted around the lawn are all members of my immediate family as well as assorted Merediths. The moment they see Ken and me, they all fall silent as if on cue.

Talk about awkward.

Clearing my throat, I raise a hand to indicate the man by my side. "Everyone, this is Ken. Ken, this is – everyone."

There's a collective murmur in response, but no-one comes closer. Wanting to ease up the situation (though with no earthly idea how to), I open my mouth to say _something_ , but Ken beats me to it.

"Good afternoon, everybody," he begins, his voice strong and steady. "I'm really glad to be here and I look forward to getting to know you all. I realise that arriving with a gaggle of police officers can hardly be considered an everyday occurrence, but I hope we can all overlook that small fact. Please just treat me like you did any of Rilla's other boyfriends." (He's slipped into official mode, I realise, but I suppose given the situation, it's understandable.)

"We would," remarks Di drily and comes a few steps closer. "Except you're the first one she's actually bringing home."

"Oh, yes," chimes in Nan. "We never knew any of the others. Except for Carl, I mean, for obvious reasons."

" _I_ knew them all," Joy points out. "At least the proper boyfriends." (Joy being, naturally, one of the few persons aware of both Jorge and Coyote Ugly Guy. She's never met either, but of course they can hardly be counted as "proper boyfriends," anyway.)

I make a point to glare at the three of them in turn, but Ken isn't so easily shaken. "In that case, we can all figure it out as we go along," he suggests.

No-one gets a chance to react to that though, because in that very second, Izzie bursts out from between Dan and Walter and charges at Ken, wrapping both arms around his legs.

"I want a movie!" she declares. (Joy raises an eyebrow and I quickly look away.)

Ken seems to be trying to crouch down on Izzie's level, but with her arms still wrapped around his knees, the mere attempt makes him sway dangerously and he immediately straightens again.

"I have one for you upstairs," he promises, even as he looks to me for help. I bite back a smile.

"Give!" demands Izzie.

"How about I'll get it for you later?" Ken tries, sounding a little helpless.

Izzie lets go of his legs and frowns up at him, evidently displeased. "Now!"

I take a step closer to intervene, but Dan beats me to it. "No, not now, young lady," he tells her, sounding very reasonable indeed. "Ken will get you the movie when he has a moment and your mother will decide when you can watch it." Then, not giving his daughter time to throw a tantrum, he picks her up and holds her upside down as he carries her off, causing Izzie to shriek with delight.

"Sure," mutters Joy, who's ventured closer as well, "make me be the bad cop again, why don't you?" But she's smiling as she says it, her gaze following husband and daughter.

"What movie did you get for her?" I ask Ken, hoping to infuse some normality into this entire situation. (A quick glance at the rest of the family tells me that they've mostly moved to stand closer to us, listening to the exchange with interest. My parents hover by the side lines a bit, though I suspect Mum of being ready to intervene whenever this shows signs of going badly.)

Ken shrugs. "An animated one. I think it's about Tinker Bell."

"Did you know that Peter killed the Lost Boys when they grew too old?" pipes up a voice behind me.

"Jake," sighs Joy, reaching out to draw her son closer to her. "That's hardly a subject for polite conversation."

"But it's true!" insists Jake.

Ken nods. "It is true. He's rather a vindictive fellow, that Peter." A moment passes, before he adds thoughtfully, "Did you know I attended the same schools as Captain Hook? First Eton and then Balliol College at Oxford."

"So did Lord Peter Wimsey!" Nan interjects happily, but no-one takes much note of her. (Probably because no-one knows who Lord Peter Whathisface is.)

Jake, meanwhile, looks up at Ken from beneath a shock of hair, at first distrustful, but then I see a slow grin spreading across his face. "On purpose?"

"Could have been," replies Ken conspiratorially.

"Are we allowed to call him Captain Hook then?" asks Jem, sotto voce, somewhere to my right.

I turn my head just in time to see Faith roll his eyes at him. "No, we are not," she declares, before stretching out her hand to Ken. "I'm Faith. This is Jem, Rilla's brother. If he ever calls you anything silly, you have my permission to call him Doctor Strange."

For a second to two, Ken looks bemused, but he catches himself quickly. "Thank you. I will make sure to do that."

Faith's approach seems to have caused a shift, for one by one, the rest of my siblings step up as well, introducing themselves and generally being more polite than I expected them to be. Usually, you can count on one or two of them saying something with the specific goal of embarrassing me.

But today, even Di shows manners that Grandmother Marilla would be proud of and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. (We spent a long evening talking it out last week and I'm pretty sure we're good. Di grumbled a bit when she heard that Dad had told me about Cambridge, but in turn I patiently listened to a ten-minute lecture on the outrageousness of Oxford's VIP places, so in the end, we agreed to call it even.)

Some fifteen minutes later, the line of introduction has moved on to Monday, who presses his snout into Ken's hand and looks up imploringly, which garners him a thorough ear scratch. (I feel a slight pang at the sight, but quickly push the thought away.)

"I bet the birds on his estates would like it if he were half as respectful of their needs," comments Carl darkly as he steps to my side. "Which would include, I don't know, _not killing them_ , for example."

"Carl," I sigh. "Can we not?"

If I harboured any hope of Ken not hearing Carl's complaints, it is dashed when he turns to look at us and remarks, surprisingly amicably, "You're Carl, right? You'd get along with my brother. He's also no fan of hunting."

"Really?" I ask quickly, because as long as I am talking, Carl cannot. "I thought your sister would have more to say about it."

Giving Monday a last pat on the head, Ken straightens again. "Persis is easily the best shot of the family. She refuses to hunt deer, on similar grounds to you refusing to eat reindeer meat, but she's got not problems with birds."

"She has a point. Shooting deer is like shooting Bambi's mum all over again," I explain.

Ken flashes me a grin. "That movie has a lot to answer for."

"It does!" I agree eagerly. "It traumatised generations of children!"

"Didn't help the poor birds though," mutters Carl and it takes all I have not to hit him over the head with something.

Thankfully, Jerry intervenes before matters can turn violent. "Stop harassing unsuspecting people, Carl," he tells his brother, sounding somewhat weary. Then, with a nod over to the barbecue, "Food's ready, if anyone is hungry."

It's just the exit strategy I needed, so I grab Ken's hand and drag him over to where the food awaits, leaving Carl and Jerry behind. A hopeful Monday follows at our heels.

But I don't make it far before I spot my sisters huddled in a circle next to one of Mum's flower beds in a way that is most suspicious. And yes, when they see me looking, they all three proceed to wave me over.

I hesitate. The waving becomes more insistent.

Letting out a long breath, I roll my eyes at them before turning back to Ken. "Look, I'm going to need to speak with my sisters, over there. They won't leave me alone until I do, as I know from experience. Are you good on your own for a moment?"

"Sure," agrees Ken easily. "We're fine, aren't we, boy?" Monday wags his tail in agreement.

"Great!" Standing on my tiptoes, I give him a quick peck and feel him smile against my lips.

I'm already a few steps away when I hesitate and look back at him over my shoulder. "If anyone starts bothering you about vaccinations, please feel free to leave. No need to be polite either."

"Understood." Raising one hand, Ken playfully tips it against his temple. Monday thumps the ground with his tail and grins at me, tongue lolling out of his muzzle.

I'm still smiling when I reach my sisters, who immediately absorb me into their circle.

"Do you have any idea how surreal this is?" asks Nan immediately. "I knew you two were together, but to actually _see_ you with him… I mean, there's a honest to goodness _prince_ in our backyard!"

"Want me to pinch you?" Di offers with a grin.

Nan pulls a frightful grimace and pre-empts any pinching by poking Di in the ribs.

"Girls," chides Joy mildly.

"Yeah. Did you call me over for a reason or are you just out to heckle each other?" I grumble. (A quick glance back at Ken shows him in conversation with Walter, which makes me relax a bit. I can trust Walter not to harass Ken _or_ embarrass me.)

Nan takes a few calculated steps away from Di. "You don't want to know what we think of him?" she queries, feigning hurt.

Truth to be told… yeah, I kind of do.

"Well?" I prompt, raising an eyebrow.

"He's dreamy," declares Nan grandly.

"He's tall," amends Di, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

"I prefer _House_ to _Grey's Anatomy_ ," adds Joy pensively.

I blink at her. "How does _that_ relate to this conversation?"

"She said dreamy," argues Joy and points at Nan. "Which made me think of McDreamy, which made me think of _Grey's Anatomy_ , which made me think of medical dramas in general, which made me think of _House_. Though I must say it did get rather soapy after the characters discovered they had _feelings_."

For a moment, I just gape at her, before raising both hands as if in self-defence. (I half mean it, too.) "You know what? I'm having no further part in this discussion," I inform them. "You three are behaving like you've drunk entirely too much of Grandmother Marilla's currant wine and I have no patience to deal with this. Which means that… oh, _whatever_!"

Throwing my hands up in the air, I turn on my heel and march over to where I left my boyfriend. My sisters' laughter accompanies me the entire way.

Ken's sitting with his back to me at a table with Shirley and Walter, the latter of whom stands up upon seeing me and, with an apparent apology, melts away, dragging a protesting Shirley with him as he does.

As I come to stand behind Ken, I slide my hands over his shoulders and nuzzle into his neck. "If my family is being too much, you must tell me. I know they can be… a lot," I tell him, my voice muffled. "In every possible way."

He doesn't answer immediately, instead turning around (which dislodges me a little) and wrapping both arms around my waist. "Are you kidding me?" he asks, a wide smile lighting up his face. "They're _brilliant_!"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Outside the Nashville City Limits' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1971)._


	40. Stop and say hello

_Avonlea, Canada  
August 2012_

 **Stop and say hello**

"Sir?" asks the police officer, whose name, I believe, is Saunders, from the front seat.

Ken looks up to meet the man's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Yes?"

"Asking permission to run them over, please?" elaborates Saunders with a nod at the reporters clearly visible a short distance away.

"Permission granted," replies Ken casually and leans back in his seat. When he catches me looking, the corners of his mouth lift in a smile.

"I think they're on private grounds anyway," I supply. "That entire driveway is already part of the Green Gables property."

That piques Ken's interest. "Is it? Well, we'll be sure to let them know. The entire driveway, you say?"

"I think so," I nod. "The gate might usually be open, but it's still _there_ , after all."

"You might advise your grandparents to close it in the future," Ken suggests. "For security, if nothing else."

"I will," I agree, not pointing out that it's only our presence that called the reporters here in the first place.

They've discovered us now and rush over to try and get a picture. But Saunders closes the gap to the car in front of us, which is carrying more protection officers, and thus prevents the reporters from getting a snap of us through the windshield. With the tinted rear windows thwarting any attempts to photograph us from the side, all they're getting are shots of two SUVs going by. I imagine they aren't well pleased by it.

"You can drive up to that barn," I tell Saunders, pointing to the old grey barn that shields most of the house and yard from the street. "We can slip in through there."

With a nod, Saunders steers our car towards the barn door while the other car blocks the reporters from getting any closer. The moment we come to a halt, the young officer named Butcher jumps out from the passenger seat and holds open my door for me. Sliding out of the car, I quickly duck into the barn, keeping my head lowered. Ken is right on my heels.

"How did they know we'd be here anyway?" I grumble as I firmly close the barn door behind us.

"They probably followed your family, speculating that we'd come as well," answers Ken with a shrug. "Which they were right about."

They were. My family left an hour ahead of us, but as Ken still needed to finish up a couple of phone calls before it got too late in England, I opted to wait for him. Some of the photographers had stayed at Ingleside and snapped our departure, but a good chunk of them obviously decided to take a chance and drove ahead to Avonlea.

(Their presence makes me think back wistfully on the two heavenly days before they got wind of Ken's arrival. Life was gloriously peaceful, then. But I reckon it's no surprise that the moment information about his presence emerged, they descended. Him being here is international news and there's no way around it.)

Taking a few steps forward, Ken takes in his surroundings curiously. "This is an actual barn," he observes. "Is this a working farm?"

"Used to be," I reply. "It was built by some ancestors of Grandmother Marilla, but her father was the last one to actually do any farming. The farmland got sold off after his death. Nowadays, it's just a home with some outbuildings for storage and a chicken coop."

"Chickens?" repeats Ken with a smile.

"Vicious beasts," I declare darkly, thinking back to how they once pinned me into a corner of the coop when I was about five years old, pecking my legs and flapping their wings. It's not my fondest memory, to put it mildly, no matter how much Carl rhapsodises about what gentle and clever creatures chicken are. (As if!)

I can feel Ken's curious gaze on me, but, deciding against sharing this humiliating episode, I instead grab his hand and lead him through the barn into the yard that stretches between the outbuildings and the actual farm house. In front of it stands Beckett, who was in the other car and must have taken the path past the barn towards the house.

"Everything alright, Sir?" he queries, approaching in long strides.

Ken nods confirmation. "Everything's fine. You might want to warn those reporters about property boundaries and the consequences of trespassing, though. Rilla says the entire driveway is private land."

"We will make sure to tell them to withdraw to the public road," agrees Beckett.

Another nod from Ken. "Good." He hesitates for a moment before adding, "Could you give us some space today? I know the house wasn't searched thoroughly, but I'd rather not have someone hovering by my shoulder all day."

Beckett seems to consider that for a moment. "I believe we can do that, Sir. The area looks suitably private. We will be right out here until further notice. If anything untoward happens, you know what to do."

"I do," confirms Ken, though without supplying any further information. Instead, he turns to me and gives my hand a squeeze. "Shall we?"

I smile up at him. "Sure. Anytime you're ready."

There's laughter coming from the garden, so I direct Ken past the house and through the white picket fence. There, I pause for a moment, allowing him to take in the rather rambunctious scene in front of us.

"They seem to have multiplied," he observes.

Laughing, I shake my head. "My aunt and uncle are there with their respective broods. They easily double numbers."

This is the first time Ken is meeting the wider family, but after a week and a half on the island, he already seems to get along my parents and siblings quite well. Of course, it's hard not to get along with Jem (though he did slip in the customary warning about not hurting me _or else_ ) and Nan's interest in everything old, English and quaint is something for her and Ken to bond over. Di is being a bit prickly and Shirley a bit reserved, but that's too be expected. On the other hand, Ken and Walter appear to get along pretty well and even Dad came around during an afternoon spent listening to LPs (I might have napped for half of it). As for Mum and Joy, I know they'd make the effort just for my sake.

"Who are they? Your aunt and uncle?" enquires Ken, his eyes roaming around the garden.

"Aunt Dora is over there," I reply, pointing into her direction. "You might have something to chat with her about, actually. She's a pilot."

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow.

I nod briskly. "Yes and there's no reason for you to be so surprised about it. She flies much bigger planes than you ever did. International flights, too."

Ken laughs, raising both hands in defence. "Sorry. It's just that female pilots are still a bit unusual. But good for her."

"It is," I confirm. "She and Ralph turned the traditional model right on its head. He used to be a teacher – geography and PE, if I remember correctly – but became a stay at home-dad when their first child was born. Meanwhile, Dora is off to fly around the world."

"Impressive," commends Ken, sounding actually sincere. Then, craning his neck a little, "Which one's your uncle? Dora's brother, I mean."

Nodding in direction of Uncle Davy, I answer, "He's that one. He's an actor. His wife Millie makes concept art."

Frowning, Ken thinks this over. "Concept art?"

"Oh, yes," I nod and bite back a smile. "It's a bit odd. I don't know what she's working on right now, but her last project included pie crusts and roadkill. It was very well-received by critics."

"Pie crusts and… roadkill?" repeats Ken, blinking in confusion.

"Uh-huh," I confirm, the smile now breaking through. "It positively distresses Grandmother Marilla. She tries to be understanding for Davy's sake, but you can see it mostly just baffles her."

"Understandably," decides Ken, shaking his head in wonder. Then, obviously deciding to return to less bewildering matters, he adds, "You said your uncle is an actor. Have I heard of him?"

I raise my shoulders in a shrug. "I wouldn't know, would I? But his stage name is Davy Keith, so if you've heard about him, it'd have been under that name."

Ken considers Davy from afar, obviously pondering whether he's seen him before. "Is he famous?"

"Not very. He had some bit parts in television, but mostly does theatre work," I explain. "Mum said he's next play will be an interactive version of _Richard III_."

Once more, Ken's eyebrows shoot up. "Interactive?"

Laughing at his expression, I shake my head. "Don't ask! It's probably going to be weird. He's an… expressive actor, Uncle Davy is. Too expressive, some might say. He was once lined up as the second lead in a TV show but it got cancelled after the pilot."

"Ouch." Ken grimaces in commiseration.

I wave his concern aside. "That was years ago. He's probably gotten over it and if he hasn't, it's time that he does."

Smiling, Ken draws me closer to press a kiss to the top of my head. "How sympathetic you are."

"Always!" I insist with a saucy grin, causing Ken's smile to widen.

Standing on my tiptoes, I steal a quick kiss, but the moment our lips touch, Jem hollers, "Oi, you two lovebirds! Want to come and say hello?"

Rolling my eyes, I rock back on my heels. Ken squeezes my hand before tugging me along to where my family awaits.

"These kids are your cousins?" he asks quietly as we walk, almost stumbling over various children running around.

"Uh-huh," I confirm. "But we usually don't make much of an effort to tell them apart. We just lob them together as 'the twins' children'. If we ever need to assign them to their parents, the trick is that Dora's are the neat ones. Millie and Davy have rather a _laissez-faire_ approach to parenting, see?"

Watching a small boy in a chef's hat, a pair of sparkly fairy wings and little else run past, Ken nods slowly. "Yes. I think I do see."

"Got to allow the little ones to express themselves," I add, hiding my smile at his confused expression. "Millie and Davy are big on the importance of expressing yourself. Dora and Ralph put more emphasis on good manners and good grades."

As if to prove my point, Ralph takes that moment to step up, a gaggle of children in tow. "Good afternoon, Sir," he greets Ken. "My name is Ralph Andrews and these are my children. I'm Rilla's uncle by marriage."

"Good afternoon," replies Ken. He looks over to me in search for an explanation, but I can only shrug. I don't know what Ralph wants either.

"Children, this is Cousin Rilla's friend. Your mother and I told you about him," continues Ralph and the children nod, staring up at Ken and me curiously.

But Ralph isn't finished yet. "Who knows how he is related to the man this island was named for?" he asks, casting a questioning glance at the children.

A small hand immediately shoots up. (He's not _really_ making them raise their hands before speaking, is he? Someone needs to go back to work ASAP!) "Prince Edward Island was named for Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, who was the father of Queen Victoria."

"Very good," decrees Ralph. "And how is he related to Rilla's friend?"

Another hand goes up, but more tentatively. "Great-great-great-great-great-grandfather."

Looking at Ken, I can see him do the maths in his head. When he realises that the kid is right, a surprised look crosses his face.

"And does anyone know how the line continues from the Duke of Kent to Rilla's friend?" enquires Ralph of the children.

Alas, I've heard enough. (Of the words 'Rilla's friend', if nothing else.)

Just about resisting the urge to raise my own hand, I interject, "Uh, Ralph? Not that this isn't fascinating, but Ken and I need to make the rounds. Shake some hands, greet some people. You don't need us around for this, do you?"

"Not at all, Rilla," replies Ralph with a benevolent smile. "Not at all."

"Great! See you later, kiddos!" Grabbing Ken's arm, I quickly drag him away, not quite looking where we're going as long as it's somewhere else. (As we leave, I can hear a child starting to recite, "Duke of Kent, Queen Victoria, King Edward VII –")

Only when we're a safe distance away, do I finally stop. "Well, that was awkward."

(It's probably just as well I didn't take Ken to meet this part of the family until his stay was almost over. He gets along quite well with the rest of them, but Dad's siblings and their families are a lot to take in.)

"It was… a little odd," agrees Ken diplomatically.

"That's putting it mildly! Ralph is such a… _teacher_. It reminds me though; Whatever you do, don't let Millie talk you into sponsoring one of her shows _or_ model for her," I warn him.

"And forego the experience of having my likeness rendered in roadkill?" asks Ken with a smile. "Some people might pay good money for it."

Deciding against a proper reply, I instead give him my most judge-y side-eye. He just grins back.

"Don't glare, Rilla. It is unbecoming," chastises a voice from behind me and I quickly swivel around. In my haste to get away from Ralph and his impromptu lesson, I seem to have dragged Ken over to where my grandmothers sit sipping tea.

"I wasn't glaring," I argue (and I wasn't!), but they both ignore it.

Instead, Grandmother Marilla gets up from her chair and proceeds to curtesy in front of Ken. Her knees crack in a way that surely must be painful.

"Your Royal Highness," she greets him.

Ken looks seriously alarmed. Grandma Bertha, who remains resolutely seated, raises a single eyebrow. (Who's judging _now_?)

"Please, Ma'am, there's no need for this," Ken quickly assures Grandmother Marilla, reaching out a hand to help her up again. "You can call me Ken. Or Kenneth, if you prefer."

But Grandmother is having none of it. "We defer to the position, not to the person," she explains matter-of-factly.

"Or we could just defer to neither," chimes in Grandma Bertha, toasting us with her teacup.

Ken looks to me for help. All his usual suaveness has been stripped reliably away by my family. If it weren't quite so embarrassing, I'd laugh.

"Maybe we could just not be having this discussion right now?" I suggest. But once again, I might as well be invisible for how much note they take of me.

"Bertha is not a royalist," remarks Grandmother Marilla, her tone leaving little doubt that she, for one, very much is.

(My grandmothers generally get along well, but when they disagree, they don't do it by halves.)

"You better believe I'm not!" declares Grandma Bertha. "It's an outdated, feudalistic system and I think it has no place in today's world."

Closing my eyes, I groan softly. I spent nearly two weeks preventing Di from beginning the very same discussion, but two minutes with Grandma Bertha and we're knee-deep into it. (I had some tentative hopes that I wouldn't have to introduce Ken to her at all, given that she was on an Arctic excursion until earlier this week. Originally, the plan had been for her to come to the Island after Ken's departure, but having heard about this gathering, she drove straight up from Halifax this morning.)

Ken clears his throat. "With all due respect, Ma'am, but if that's the case – and I'm not saying it isn't – it's up to the people to change it."

Grandma lowers her teacup and looks at him. "You're saying if the people decided they want you gone…"

She trails off, but Ken nods. "We'd go, yes. I mean… a King without the support of the people is just a man in a silly hat."

"Now she's going to try and start a revolution," murmurs Grandmother Marilla and I have to suppress a smile.

For now though, Grandma just eyes Ken curiously, obviously quite taken by his answer against her will. She looks ready to pick his brain on the matter some more, but thankfully, we're all saved by the arrival of Grandpa John.

"Ken, darling, this is my grandfather," I quickly introduce, grabbing Ken's arm and dragging him a few steps away from Grandma Bertha.

"My pleasure, Sir." Ken extends a hand towards Grandpa, probably to keep him from bowing or doing some other weird thing. (I don't think he would, but you never know.)

"All mine," replies Grandpa amicably, shaking the proffered hand. "Rilla told me you're a fellow Air Force Man?"

When Ken looks at me for explanation, I supply, "Grandpa was an air mechanic in the war."

"Then you did a lot more useful work than me. I've just been trained _very thoroughly_." There's a self-deprecating little smile on Ken's lips as he shakes his head slightly.

"And let us all pray that it will stay that way," Grandpa replies solemnly.

There's a moment of silence, with no-one knowing quite what to say to that, until I take it upon myself to inelegantly change the subject. "Have you been up to the house, Grandpa?" I ask him. "Is she ready to see us?"

For a moment, he appears startled by the question but then catches himself and nods. "Oh, yes. Yes. Yes, she is."

Well, then… no excuse to put it off any longer.

Grandmother Marilla reaches out to touch my arm in sympathy and I force a smile. She, of all people, knows exactly how much I am _not_ looking forward to this.

"Come on," I prompt Ken. "Let's get it over with."

Nodding at my grandparents in turn, he accepts the hand I hold out for him and allows me to lead him over towards the house. It's only when we're some steps away that he leans towards me and asks quietly, "What are we doing and why does it need getting over with?"

Sighing, I cast a dark look at the house. "You'll see."

But before we make it inside, I spot Joy leaning against the cherry tree, phone in hand and looking decidedly pensive. Only too ready to delay it even longer, I make a beeline for her, dragging Ken along with me.

"Bad news?" I want to know as we come to a halt in front of her.

Joy raises her head, seemingly needing a moment to focus. "No, not at all," she answers once she's collected herself. "That was our lawyer. They finally dropped all charges. Against all of us."

"But that's brilliant, Joy!" I exclaim, smiling widely at her.

"Amazing news," agrees Ken.

My sister, however, remains thoughtful. "I have half a mind to send the decision to Honeyplace, just to show him he was paranoid about letting me go."

"Honeyplace is a senior partner at the law firm she worked for," I explain quietly when Ken turns to me for clarification.

"And a less aptly named man I never met," adds Joy. "There's nothing sweet about him. Nothing nice either. He's a –" She makes a vague gesture in place of the probably very unkind word she truly wanted to use.

"If he asked you to come back…. would you?" I ask tentatively.

Joy inclines her head as she considers her answer. "It's not going to happen, but… I probably wouldn't want to anyway. If one good thing came out of this entire situation, it's that I got to know a different kind of lawyering. I really enjoy working more closely with my clients and it's rewarding, helping these women. I'm not saying I want to do this forever, but for now, I think it's something I'd like to explore further." She pauses for a second or two, smiling wryly. "I just need to figure out how to get paid for it."

The thought of unresolved finances makes me grimace. Joy raises a questioning eyebrow, before realisation dawns on her face.

"Oh! You're going to see her?" she asks.

I nod, pulling another grimace for good measure.

Joy laughs mercilessly. "Rather you than me," she declares. "Remember to keep your cool!"

"I'll _try_ ," I mutter darkly, causing her to laugh even louder.

"Well, good luck with that." Pushing off from the tree, she claps me on the back as she passes us to re-join our family. Her step, I notice, is lighter than I've seen it in a long time.

"Rilla?" Ken's voice is a little tentative, which is unusual enough for me to tear my eyes away from Joy and look up at him.

"Do you want to tell me who's in that house?" he continues. "I'm beginning to feel a little afraid."

That makes two of us.

Letting go of his hand to loop my arm through his, I turn back towards Green Gables and take a deep breath. "Aunt Mary Maria."

We're walking again, but it's mostly Ken propelling us forward. "That doesn't sound so terrifying in and of itself," he observes.

"That's because you don't know her," I inform him. "She's… ugh."

Ken laughs and I glare at him. We'll see whether he's still laughing in ten minutes!

"She's Grandpa's cousin," I elaborate, if reluctantly. "She has no family of her own, so she has to bribe us into spending time with her."

"Bribe?" repeats Ken, still sounding far too amused for my liking.

I shrug. "Well, who do you think pays for our tuition? My parents aren't destitute, but putting seven children through college is a bit beyond their means."

"And this aunt…" Ken trails off.

"Her father bought Apple shares by accident in the 80s," I explain. "Which means she most definitely has the means. In return for her paying up, we have to be nice to her."

"How can you buy Apple shares by accident?" he wants to know, his expression one of incredulity.

Frowning, I try to remember the rest of the story. "Don't quote me on it, but I think he meant to buy shares in Apple Records. The Beatles' label, you know? By the time he discovered his mistake a _long_ time later, his Apple shares had gone through the roof. According to family lore, he wasn't really the brightest bulb around."

"So a classic case of _Fortune favours fools_?" Ken asks, sounding far too delighted.

I sigh. "Most likely."

Despite me dragging my feet, we've reached the front door and I stop to collect my bearings.

"Just so we're clear," I tell Ken, turning towards him. "Me coming to Oxford depends on her bankrolling it, so you better support me in there. You meet dotty old women all the time on your job, don't you? And they seem to like you, so… you know, just do your thing, alright?"

He smiles, reaching up to tug at the end of my French braid. "You're adorable."

"I might be, but _she_ certainly isn't" I try to impress on him. "So please remember to keep your guard up. If backhanded compliments were Olympic, Michael Phelps wouldn't be anywhere close to being history's most decorated athlete."

"Nice guy, that Phelps fellow," Ken remarks off-hand and I roll my eyes at him. Now is _not_ the time to name-drop!

Pushing open the door, I reluctantly step into the dimly-lit hall. The parlour is too my left and I've just reached for the door knob when a voice from inside it calls out, "Is that you, Rita?"

Closing my eyes, I take deep breath and pray for calm.

Here goes nothing, I guess.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Penny Lane' (written by Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1967)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Finland! I'd love to go to Finland one day. For reasons I cannot explain, it remains one of the few European countries I haven't visited yet, but I absolutely have plans to rectify that at some point. People tell me it's beautiful! I will, however, not eat any Rudolphs, no matter their tastiness ;)._  
 _Ken coming to Betty's wedding would have caused a media frenzy that would have been unfair to the bride and groom. I'm entirely with you on that (and so is he, hence why he stayed away). Also, I figured he should meet Rilla's actual family before being introduced to various acquaintances of an old school friend of hers. Meeting the siblings was potentially awkward enough, as you note, which is why Izzie was a handy ice breaker for me. She can be nicely employed when I need to combat general grown-up awkwardness. (No presents for the siblings. That would have been overdoing it, I think.)_  
 _Have lots of fun in the Netherlands and make sure to eat some Vla for me - the vanilla kind, of course, because clearly, that's the best kind ;)._

 _To AnneShirley:  
Do I remember you? Of course I do! In fact, I don't think I've ever regretted not being able to reach guest reviews quite this much, which has nothing to do with the stories or with reviews (though I always did and still do enjoy your reviews very much!) and everything to do with wondering whether you were well. Now, the logical part of my brain always knew you were likely just busy, but I still thank you for popping back in and assuring the illogical part that you were not, in fact, abducted by aliens ;). (Seriously, I understand being busy and I know life is more important than fanfiction. I'm just saying I'm glad you're well.)  
I'll argue that one can never be truly saturated when it comes to Joan Baez's singing, but in the interest of a broader musical outlook, I threw __in_ _some Beatles this week. And there's a stretch of Dylan-titled chapters coming up, so I'm hoping your approve!  
I know very, very little about Avengers, so I'm mostly just going with that wikipedia and more well-versed people tell me. Jem as Doctor Strange was far too good to pass up though! (And yes, Scarlet Witch isn't the most creative effort from Jem, but if she really can influence her surroundings the way it's been described to me, Rilla absolutely wouldn't mind a slice of her powers.)  
As you said, Rilla is really at a point in her life where the surreal juxtaposes with the normal. A day in her life can absolutely start by getting breakfast with Joy, continue with a visit to the park with Jake and Izzie and end in a fancy hotel with her royal boyfriend. I think that why it's actually good for her that she has her family to ground her, embarrassing t-shirts and embarrassing nicknames included. They're certainly all making an effort to welcome Ken, too, even though some struggle more with the sheer oddness of the situation than others. (Looking at you, Nan!) They're a friendly, inclusive bunch in general though and that's what Ken appreciates so much about them - much as it sometimes makes Rilla want to get herself adopted away ;).  
Mina Wood is no-one, so no need to worry about her. I must disappoint you on the Shirley/Carl front though. They've been done a lot recently and I just wanted to shake things up a bit and do something else again, so there won't be any Shirley/Carl romance in this story. Sorry! They're friends though, if that helps a little?_


	41. Found an island in your arms

_Oxford, England  
September 2012_

 **Found an island in your arms**

Carefully, I steer my bike around a corner, making sure to keep my balance. I've never been much of a bike rider and haven't touched one since graduating from school (you don't ride a bike in New York unless you have a very definite death wish), but here in Oxford, a bike feels just right. It absolutely adds to the general feel of it.

Humming softly, I pedal along the street, letting my gaze drift over the houses on either side. Oxford, it has to be said, is _pretty_. Very pretty, even. In many ways, it's everything New York isn't, which makes this change of scenery more drastic, but I'm enjoying it all the more for it. I loved living in New York and my corner of Brooklyn was much less imposing than the steel towers of Manhattan, but… well, it certainly doesn't beat Oxford for prettiness.

Out of the portfolio of houses suggested by Melissa, I ended up choosing one in the suburb of Jericho, which sounds very "and did those feet in ancient times", but is really a sweet, old-timey place. It's apparently also a very coveted area to live and just a ten minute-ride away from Oriel College, which is pretty convenient. (Though, to be honest, I don't think any two spots in Oxford are more than a ten minute-ride apart. It's _pretty_ , but also pretty tiny.)

Rounding another corner, I steer my bike into our street. The usual gaggle of photographers has convened across from our house, but a quick headcount says it's not more than five. When we moved here, there were enough of them to seriously disrupt traffic (which didn't endear us to our new neighbours), but after over two weeks of not much happening, the majority have moved on to more interesting matters.

I'm almost tempted to give them a cheery wave, as befitting my current mood, but have the good sense to refrain. If boring pictures make their numbers dwindle, boring pictures it is.

Our new home is a semi-detached terrace house and it's so quintessentially _English_ that Mum very nearly squealed when I showed her a picture. It's all yellow brick and bay windows, decorated gables and swirly things atop the roof. "Victorian," announced Walter after one look at the same picture and I'd never dare to question him on matters such as these.

Hopping off my bike, I push it up the short driveway and lean it against the low wall separating our property from the one next door. I take my bags from the front basket, not bothering to secure the bike. It's hardly going to get stolen with highly trained police officers watching the house every minute of the day.

I've only seen two of them lurking around, meaning Ken isn't home yet. This is just the basic contingent to secure the house. Were he in, his personal security detail would be present as well, significantly beefing up numbers.

Letting myself into the house, I toss my keys on a table in the hall and drop my handbag next to it, before making my way to the kitchen with the shopping bags.

The house is as gorgeous on the inside as it is from the outside. It has panelled walls, friezes, antique chandeliers and not one, not two, not three, but _four_ genuine fireplaces! It's a tad excessive, to be honest. (To be _absolutely_ honest, it's also about three sizes too big for just two people, but after three years in the Shoebox, it's heavenly to have a bit of space.)

Bypassing the drawing room with its squishy sofas and the bay window (fireplace number one) andthe semi-formal reception area (fireplace number two), I enter the kitchen, where a many-knobbed stove occupies the space of what once must have been fireplace number five.

The open-plan kitchen is easily my favourite room in the house. Ceiling windows keep it light and airy and the two double doors lead out into the charmingly overgrown garden. It borders Oxford Canal, a few steps leading right down to the water, a feature I love about the house and Beckett absolutely detests. According to Ken, he complained at length about security issues and having to protect the canal as well, but… that's his job, right?

Beckett also had the nerve to advocate for putting an officer permanently in the basement bedroom. Ken laughed at the mere suggestion, which was convenient, because that way, I didn't have to. As it stands, the bedroom remains empty, while we turned the attic into a shared study. The first floor holds a guestroom (fireplace number three) and our own bedroom (fireplace number four), which has a _huge_ en-suite bathroom that is absolutely my second favourite spot in the house.

(Look, I _said_ it was excessive!)

Placing my bags on the counter, I reach for the remote control to Ken's outsized stereo and press 'play'. The familiar opening notes of _Year of the Cat_ waft through the room and I feel a painful pang. Quickly, I forward to the next song (the mercifully felineless _Penny Lane_ ) and take a deep breath. I'm in a good mood. I will _stay_ in a good mood.

But putting away the groceries doesn't do much to distract me or lift my mood, so it's only when I finally hear the front door closing that I feel myself perking up.

"I'm home," comes Ken's voice moments later.

"Kitchen," I call back, reaching for the remote to switch off the music.

When he appears in the doorway, a wide smile on his face, some of the weight lifts from my shoulders.

"You're cooking?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eye, and ambles closer.

"I got the groceries, so _you_ can cook," I correct, holding a bunch of carrots under his nose for inspection.

Ken grins. "Might be for the best."

I swat at him with the carrots, but he ducks just in time, laughing outright now. As he does, I notice that he's wearing a plain old T-shirt and a pair of chinos.

"You took off the uniform," I observe, sliding my lower lip forward. (He was at some veterans' thing and they like to stick him in a uniform for those. _I_ just would have liked to have seen him wear one in real life for once, not just on TV.)

Still laughing, Ken takes the carrots from me and wraps his arms around my waist. "What is it with you women and uniforms?" he teases.

"What's with you men and high heels?" I shoot back. "We don't wear them for comfort, you know."

"No." He shakes his head. " _You_ wear them because they make you taller and you like the way they make your legs look."

Drat.

He's right.

He knows it, too, because he's grinning widely now. I can do nothing but turn up my nose at him most haughtily, but Ken just leans down and captures my lips in a kiss. A proper one that I allow myself to melt into.

Some very pleasant minutes later, I'm up on the kitchen counter, with my shirt (and, I fear, the carrots) somewhere on the floor. Ken's kissing my neck and it feels nice enough that I am _almost_ tempted to let his earlier impudence slide. But two can play at that game and it's time he remembers.

Sliding a hand into his hair and tugging lightly, I ask, "What about dinner?" (It would have had even more effect if I weren't quite so breathless, but it'll have to do. Besides, he's unlikely to notice.)

"Later," he murmurs against my skin, his breath sending a shiver down my spine.

Composure, Rilla!

I give his hair another tug. "Not later. I'm hungry."

For a moment, I think he's going to ignore me (and I'm pretty sure if he had, I would have gone along with it), but then he lets his head drop forward against my shoulder, groaning. "You're cruel."

"That's me!" I announce cheerfully, pushing him away a bit and hopping down from the counter. His eyes, noticeably darker than usual, follow me, but he stays put.

"You're cruel," he repeats, which earns him a delighted laugh from me.

Taking a deep breath, Ken pushes a hand through his hair. "Would this not have happened if I had kept on the uniform?" he grumbles.

"Well, you never know until you try," I inform him, still doing little to hide my amusement.

"You're laughing at me," he observes. "I hope you know I'm going to find a way to make you pay for that later."

"Oh, I'm counting on it!" Giving him my sauciest smile, I close the gap between us to press a kiss to his lips that might be short but makes up for it in intensity. When he raises his arms to entrap me, however, I quickly swirl out of reach.

"Dinner, dinner," I singsong from the safety of the other side of the counter.

Ken just stands there for a few seconds, staring at me, but then he, too, has to laugh, if probably despite himself. Shaking his head, he wonders, "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you love me?" I suggest blithely.

"Because I love you," he agrees with a smile. "No other explanation for it."

And it's the best kind of explanation anyway.

Reaching out a hand for me, he ask, "Come back here? I promise I'll be on my best behaviour."

"So long as you also promise to be on your worst behaviour later tonight…" I trail off, raising both eyebrows meaningfully.

Ken, once again, shakes his head at me. "Tease."

He's probably right on that account, too.

Coming closer to him, I hoist myself on the counter again, only this time, it's to observe him going through the groceries I bought and selecting those he wants for tonight's meal. (The carrots, I notice absently, still languish unloved on the floor.)

"I've got something to tell you," I declare as Ken fills a pot with water.

"What is it?" he asks, putting the pot on the stove – and pinching my side as he passes, making me yelp.

"That's your best behaviour?" I mutter and see a grin appear on his face, though he tries to hide it.

"You wanted to tell me something?" he reminds instead, placing eight or nine potatoes on the counter next to me.

I shake my head to decline the offered potato peeler (I'd only end up cutting myself anyway) and announce, "I've got a job."

"A job?" repeats Ken and looks up in surprise. (His hands, I notice, pick up a potato to peel it. How he can do that without looking fascinates me quite a bit.)

"A job," I confirm, feeling satisfied.

"I didn't even know you had an interview," he remarks, picking up the next potato.

"They called me spontaneously this morning and asked whether I could come in," I explain. "With nothing else on the agenda but grocery shopping, I could."

"What kind of job is it?" Ken asks, suddenly a little hesitant. "Not waitressing again, I hope?" After a moment, he seems to realise what he said, because he quickly elaborates, "Not that there's anything wrong with waitressing. It's just…"

He lets the sentence hang, but I know what he's saying.

"It's awfully public, waitressing," I agree. "I got a pretty good taste of that back in New York and I'm perfectly disinclined to go through it again. Lots of people just showing up to take oh-so-subtle photos of me with their phones." I shudder at the thought.

Ken reaches out to lightly brush the tips of his fingers along my still bare arm. "That's what I meant."

"I know you did," I smile, catching his hand and pressing a brief kiss to it.

He taps a finger against the tip of my nose, before withdrawing the hand to peel the last potato. "So, tell me about the job?" he asks.

"Oh, it's probably very boring," I reply blithely. "It's just plain old office work. Ostensibly, my economics degree convinced them to hire me, but I suspect it will be lots of secretarial stuff. On the plus side though, I'll be in an office with no customers coming in and if I have to answer the phone, I can always call myself Miss Moneypenny to throw them off."

"Because they wouldn't find that unusual at all," Ken points out with a grin as he pops the peeled potatoes into the simmering water.

"I know, right?" I beam at him. "It's a fool-proof plan!"

Swinging my legs a little, I watch him pour oil into a pan and place it on the stove. After pre-heating the oven, he starts on chopping garlic and onions, but only gets halfway done before suddenly stopping and placing the knife next to the chopping board. "Would you mind putting on a shirt?"

Judging from his somewhat frustrated voice, he's been holding that in for a few minutes and I bite back a satisfied smile. "But this is one of my favourite bras," I tell him innocently, looking down at the garment in question.

"Just put this on, will you?" he asks, picking up my shirt from where it lies next to the forgotten carrots and pressing it into my hands.

"Sure, if it helps you focus," I tease.

Ken just glowers in return, resuming his cutting with a little more force than necessary. I pull the shirt over my head as asked, but don't do anything to stifle my laughter.

"Why do you want a job anyway?" he wonders while picking up the pan and moving it to distribute the oil more evenly. "Are you afraid that Oxford won't keep you busy enough?"

"Hardly." I shake my head, grimacing a little. "I'm sure Oxford will know how to keep me plenty busy. It's a visa issue, mostly."

He scrapes the garlic and onion into the pan and turns to look at me, frowning. "I thought your visa allowed you to study?"

"It does," I clarify quickly. "But technically, it was originally conceived to allow us little colonists to work here, meaning you have to prove that you either do have work or are actively looking for some. Now, from what I gather, they usually accept full-time studies as well, but after the mess with the Americans… well, I figured I'd make sure to be a stickler this time around."

"Makes sense," agrees Ken, appearing thoughtful. "Does Oxford have a problem with you working? I seem to remember they discouraged it in undergraduates. Not that I ever had a reason to look it up myself, of course."

"Obviously not, your job being unpaid and everything," I deadpan.

Ken grins. "Paid indirectly and in ways so complicated that not even Oxford understands them," he corrects. "The royal finances regularly reduce even highly-trained accountants to tears."

"Poor sods," I reply cheerfully.

"I'll be sure to relay your commiserations," promises Ken as he starts slicing celery.

"Do, please," I nod. "As for Oxford, rules say that they're fine with graduate students working up to eight hours a week. Which should count as part-time work for the visa people, so everyone is happy."

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "They would be, but are you sure you can get it all done? I just think it could be a lot on your plate. Settling into a new country, doing a master's degree at a university such as Oxford _and_ working on top of it… I don't want you to take on too much."

Feeling a rush of affection for him, I give him a reassuring smile. "I'm good, I promise. All settled in, too!" Raising my hands, I playfully indicate my sitting position.

"Yes, you are," he acknowledges, dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose as he passes me to finally pick up the carrots from the floor. "Just tell me if there's anything I can do."

"I will. Scout's honour!" I raise my hand into what I'm reasonably sure is the Scout salute, but only manage to keep my straight face for about three seconds before the grin breaks through.

"I'll hold you to it," warns Ken good-naturedly. Separating some carrots from the bunch, he peels two of them before starting to cut them into small cubes.

Watching as he works, I add, "Everything else aside, I also won't mind having a bit of money of my own to spend again. I haven't been on a good shopping spree in _ages_!"

Apart from frivolous spending money, the rest of my finances are pretty solid though. Aunt Mary Maria – who absolutely _adored_ Ken, which was definitely a rabbit hole-kind of experience – has tuition covered and my parents wire me money for food and rent and other essentials. (Incidentally, I'm reasonably sure the rent I pay doesn't cover half the house, but it's all Ken will accept.)

"You're not drafting me to come along on the shopping trip, are you?" Ken asks over his shoulder, his head half-stuck on the fridge.

"Not to worry. I can dress myself," I assure. "I've done it for a while."

"Glad to hear," he remarks with a grin as he emerges from the fridge, holding a container with left-over chicken and broth from Sunday dinner.

As he adds both to the mixture in the pan, I suggest, "I thought we could do a movie night sometime this week though. Rent a couple of movies, get some popcorn… the works."

"Do you have anything in mind?" he enquires while sticking a fork into the potatoes, still cooking in their pot.

"I do, actually," I reply eagerly. "See, there's this movie Madonna did about the fictional British King who married an American divorcee sometime in the 1930s. Wouldn't that be fun to watch?"

Ken pauses and I know he's trying to think of a way to decline without hurting my feelings, but when he sees me grinning widely, his shoulders relax markedly. "Enjoyed that, did you?" he grumbles.

"I did," I confirm happily, causing him to glance darkly into my direction. (Or it would be dark, if his eyes weren't sparkling in amusement.)

"I don't get the premise of that movie anyway," he opines as he grabs the pot from the stove to drain the potatoes. "It never happened. It would never have happened! The only king we had in the 1930s was King Victor and he was not only around 70 but also married to a very formidable German wife. Family lore claims he was pretty afraid of her."

"Doesn't make for a very entertaining movie though," I point out.

"Probably not," he agrees.

Humming thoughtfully, I add, "Alternatively, do you want watch the movie that has a Mongolian Death Worm terrorising Atlantic City?"

"I do not and neither do you," declares Ken, shuddering. "I'm perfectly sure that just watching it would kill off brain cells."

"True," I agree blithely, earning me a relieved smile from him.

Ken proceeds to add cream and milk to the potatoes and starts squishing them into mashed potatoes, while I let my thoughts wander a little. Perking up suddenly when a particular thought strikes me I ask, "Oh, hey. Has anyone ever done a movie about you?"

"I wouldn't know and even if it existed, we would _not_ watch it." His answer comes so quick and sounds so final, that I have little doubt that yes, such a movie totally exist. I _must_ remember to hunt it down!

But this, I decide, will be a surprise, so I just answer with an amiable, "Alright then." His suspicious gaze, I meet with my most innocent smile.

Interrupting his mashing efforts for a moment to stir the mixture still on the stove and add some peas and corn, Ken turns back to me with a thoughtful expression, "Movie night sounds good, but we could also go to the movies if you want. Properly."

At this, I raise both eyebrows to almost comical heights. " _Go_ to the movies? Like, go to an actual cinema? In _public_?"

(It's not like we've never left the house since I arrived in England, but we stayed pretty well cooped up, just revelling in the fact that for the first time in over a year, we have all the time in the world. Which means that, while I have ventured outside to explore the town and Ken has kept up with his royal schedule, we have so far spent date nights at home, wrapped up in one another.)

He smiles wryly at my exaggerated surprise as he takes up murdering the potatoes again. "Yes in public. We can't hide forever, right? I think it's safe to say we've been company enough to each other these past weeks, but when classes start, we need to find some form of normal. And normal includes going out together and doing things normal people do. In public."

The snarky part in me wants to ask how he would know about what 'normal' entails in the first place, but I know it would be unfair, especially given that he's obviously trying to get this right.

"I'd like to go to the movies," I therefore reply and my smile is absolutely sincere.

"Great!" Leaning over the potatoes, he gives me a quick peck. "There's a Kerouac adaption out. _On the Road_."

Feeling dumbstruck for a moment, I just stare at him, horrified. When my voice finally cooperates again somewhat, I hiss, " _Over my dead body_!"

Ken keeps his expression serious much longer than I would have, before finally breaking into a grin. "Sorry. Couldn't resist!"

"Well, _try_!" I grumble, but I'm having a hard time to keep from laughing as well.

"I will." A beat. "Try, I mean."

Grabbing the remaining carrots, I throw them at him but he ducks away and they land on the floor – again.

"Not Kerouac then," he observes as he checks the vegetables and, having obviously decreed them to be suitably cooked, starts spreading the mashed potatoes on top the mixture. "How about _Anna Karenina_ instead?"

"Is that the one where Earl Vronsky is played by a teenaged milksop with an abundance of blonde curls and a worrying lack of, well, hotness?" I wrinkle my nose. "No, thanks, I'll pass."

"Being hot isn't all Vronsky is about," argues Ken. I can't see his face, given that he's currently popping the food into the oven, but he sounds distinctly amused.

"But a big part of it. I need to _believe_ that she'd give up everything to be with him, right? Which means he must have _something_ going for him and Milksop just doesn't," I explain, waving my hands around to underline my point. "I mean, have you seen the _moustache_?"

Ken's laughing and I highly suspect he's laughing _at_ me, so I make sure to push my lower lip forward in a pout. After all, I'm _right_.

"Not a fan of moustaches then?" he asks, still doing little to hide his laughter.

"Grow one and I'll leave you," I warn darkly.

"Wouldn't dare," he promises, leaning over to give me a kiss that lingers a little longer than probably intended.

When our lips part again, he stays close to me, one hand drawing light patterns on my back. (It's slipped below my shirt, too, which just proves my point. It was a waste of effort to put it back on.)

"How about the new Woody Allen then?" he suggests.

That's when I realise that he knows about all these current movies because he's planned this. A proper date, out in public. Our first in nearly a year.

"Sounds good to me," I agree, feeling myself soften.

"So it's a date!" His smile is so brilliant it's contagious and I find myself beaming back at him.

A moment passes before I notice his expression shifting. With a glance at the oven, he casually remarks, "This needs bake for about forty-five minutes. Any idea what we could do in the meantime?"

"Mhhh," I hum as I slide my arms around his neck and allow him to pick me up from the counter. "I could think of a few things…"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Break On Through (To the Other Side)' (written by Jim Morrison, Ray Manzarek, John Densmore and Robby Krieger, released by The Doors in 1967)._

* * *

 _To Guest:_  
 _Yes, I figured since Aunt Mary Maria has never shown herself useful before, making her cough up the money wouldn't come amiss. I don't feel a bit bad about it either ;)._


	42. All the pretty people

_Oxford, England  
October 2012_

 **All the pretty people**

With one more flourish than strictly necessary, Ken brings the motorbike to a halt. After he's cut the engine and stabilised the machine, I swing my right leg over the back of it, so that I am standing on reassuringly stable pavement.

I take a moment to free myself from the helmet without accidentally tearing out a chunk of hair, while Ken simply moves his visor up.

"Shall I pick you up in two hours?" His voice is somewhat muffled.

"Sounds good." I smile at him, allowing him to take my helmet and store it in the box above the fuel tank. It means there won't be any more space for his own later on, but I suspect he's just going to leave it with the agents who are, as ever, faithfully following him around in a not very inconspicuous car.

With Ken's helmet and the general publicness of the place preventing a farewell kiss, I instead touch his shoulder. In turn, he reaches up to squeeze my hand, though the heavy glove he's wearing makes it rather difficult.

"See you later." His eyes crinkle into a smile, before he disappears behind his mirrored visor again and starts up the bike.

As he speeds off, I turn towards the modern Manor Road Building where most of our lectures and seminars are held. It's somewhat to the east of most other university buildings, which is why it's always a bit faster when Ken takes me on his motorbike. When he can't do it, I just take my trusty un-motorised bike instead, the kind his PPOs don't like him to use because apparently, it makes him 'vulnerable'. (No, I don't know either. I've long given up trying to figure out the reasoning behind their various rules.)

Near the entrance of the building, I spot Ginny, Holly and Tammy who are watching me with interest. When they see me looking, Ginny raises a hand to wave me over.

I have to admit that when I came here for my very first lecture, I was pretty nervous. I stuck close to Ken during matriculation, but for the lectures, I knew I was on my own. I've always made friends easily wherever I went, but it struck me the evening before that this time around, I would be at a disadvantage, because I've discovered that almost every person I encounter has heard _something_ about me. Whereas to me, they're all perfect strangers. It's a bit of a disconcerting feeling.

Luckily, on setting foot in the seminar room on the first day, I was immediately waved over by Ginny, as she's doing right now, and invited to sit with her and her two friends. Of course, it was immediately clear that they knew me, but they didn't make a big deal out of it. Instead, they allowed me to sit and listen to their chattering, and I'd be lying if I claimed not to have felt relieved.

Over the subsequent week and a half, I learned a bit more about them (Ginny hails from the London district of Islington, Holly not-so-secretly wants to be fashion photographer and Tammy is allergic to peanuts), which evens the score a little. We sit together in lectures and seminars and have even grabbed lunch together twice. It's not nearly on par with the closeness I share with my New Yorker friends, but it's nice to have a group to belong to.

"That motorbike is hot," declares Tammy once I am within earshot.

I grimace a little. "I'd be happier if it only drove half as fast."

"Likes to ride it hard, does he?" asks Holly and wiggles her eyebrows.

Rolling my eyes, I wave the question aside, but when the other three laugh, I allow myself a smile as well.

"He tends to go a little faster than I feel strictly comfortable with, especially when outside town," I clarify once the laughter has died down.

"Which is also hot," adds Tammy.

Her tone leaves little room for argument, so I just shrug. "Yes, maybe."

Tammy smiles triumphantly and high-fives Holly, while Ginny loops her arm through mine and pulls me along. Behind us, Tammy and Holly continue to debate the hotness of men on motorbikes.

(Briefly, I wonder whether I should weigh in and steer them towards men in uniform, but they seem well-occupied at the moment and anyway, it's not a subject that comes with a sell-by date.)

"Ugh, I'm really not in the mood for any more statistics," Ginny complains, pushing her lower lip forward in a pout.

She's not completely wrong either. Our curriculum this semester consists of Statistical Methods, Qualitative Methods and Sociological Analysis, which… isn't _exactly_ what I had in mind when I signed up for this. I don't mind having a bit of maths involved, but I thought we'd be doing mildly more exciting stuff.

Pushing open the front door to the building, I hold it long enough for Tammy to catch. "Don't we have orientation sometime next month about which optional courses to take?" I wonder aloud.

Ginny nods. "Yes, in week five. I still think they could have distributed the interesting courses a little more evenly though."

"That would have been nice," I agree.

Turning towards the stairs, we begin our ascent to the second floor where they've amassed most of the seminar rooms.

"…leather jacket and jeans. None of those weird biker trousers for me," argues Holly behind us.

"But proper leather trousers are _so_ sexy!" exclaims Tammy

(I've got half a mind to start them on the uniforms after all, if only for a little variety.)

Ginny nudges me with her elbow and whispers conspiratorially, "So, would we find a secret collection of leather trousers in _his_ closet?"

Laughing, I shake my head. "He has proper biker gear for longer rides, but no normal leather trousers for off-duty wear."

"Imagine the pearl-clutching if he were to appear in a pair _on-duty_ ," remarks Ginny, grinning at the thought.

The press would certainly have a field day. The outrage would likely only be surpassed if _I_ turned up in a pair of leather trousers on my own. It'd play right into the hands of some of those rags that have been trying their best to paint me as a bit of a Jezebel.

"I don't think the palace would allow it," I reply casually. "They already give him notes on what to wear as it is."

"Like he can't dress himself!" scoffs Ginny.

I nod. "Quite."

We've reached seminar room E, which is one of the smaller ones and just about holds the 25 people that makes up the entire intake for our year. We're still taught all together in Michaelmas term, with the exception of tutorials. It's only when we add optional courses come Hillary term that we'll diverge more.

Prof Schmitt is already in the room, so we hurry to slip inside and find some seats. Holly and Tammy even shut up about leather trousers, which, frankly, was not before time. It's not like there's much you can say about them anyway, is there?

"Textbooks out," calls Prod Schmitt over the general noise of the class. Moments later, the chatter is replaced by the rustle of bags as we all reach for our statistics textbooks.

With a long-suffering sigh, Ginny places her copy of _Statistical Methods for_ _the Social Sciences_ on the table next to mine. It's only our third lecture on the subject and she already appears to be pretty over it. I don't think it's that she doesn't get it – she won a place at Oxford after all, so she can't be lacking in brains – it just seems to bore her.

(On my other side, Holly and Tammy are locked in a whispered discussion about whether it's still acceptable to wear a leather dress when you're a size 12. Given that they're obviously talking a UK 12, this would be a… 8 in real sizes, I think.)

At the front of the class, Prof Schmitt starts talking about mean and median and mode, causing me to flip through my book in search of the chapter he's talking about. If I remember correctly from bygone maths classes, those ought to be descriptive statistics, right?

I've just found what I'm looking for (they are, indeed, descriptive statistics), when Ginny nudges me in the side.

"Look at the teacher's pets scribbling away," she mutters, nodding towards the front of the class, where, indeed, a group of students diligently write down what Prof Schmitt is saying.

I was just about to start taking notes myself, but slowly lower my pen again. "Yes, look at them," I murmur back.

With a grin and an eye roll, Ginny rocks back in her chair, demonstratively folding her hands behind her head.

Instead of the pen, I take up a pencil and lightly underline some sentences in the chapter that seem to align with what Prof Schmitt is talking about. I can always work through it properly later on.

Prof Schmitt continues to talk about descriptive statistics for the next hour. I jot down some notes when I notice Holly and Tammy doing the same, but Ginny doesn't pick up a pen for the entire lecture. I've already noticed that she never takes notes, but it's still a little disconcerting to have someone just _sitting_ there, doing nothing.

When the hour of lecturing is finally over, we move on to the IT Lab for what is called a 'hands-on class'. It basically puts us in front of computers and has us try to get a program called Stata to do what Prof Schmitt talked about in the lecture beforehand. It's complicated by the fact that the program itself doesn't look any less intimidating than it did on the first day and my measly notes don't help much in making progress.

Beside me, Ginny lazily does some clicks and her computer actually starts spouting off results.

"How did you do that?" demands Tammy and I send her silent thanks. I wouldn't mind an explanation either.

Ginny just waves her hand. "Oh, I just did what he told us to do," she declares airily.

Holly points at her computer screen. "Come on, show us!"

Heaving a sigh, Ginny gets up to do whatever she did on Holly's computer as well, but at such a speed that I catch maybe half of it. Something else to look up at home, I guess.

As the hour-long hands-on class finally winds to a close, there's a distinct feeling of relief washing over me. This is neither as easy as Ginny makes it out to be nor particularly interesting. Or economical, come to think of it. I'm much faster determining mean age or size with a simple calculator than with this weird program.

With five minutes left on the clock, most of us start getting restless, sliding our stuff back into our bags and shifting on our seats. Obviously I'm not the only one ready for this to be over.

"Before you leave," Prof Schmitt interjects, "I will upload the first of your three take-home assignments later today. It will be marked, but not count towards your final grade. Group work is permitted. See you on Friday." He dismisses us with a motion of one hand.

It's just as well because his announcement immediately leads to animated discussions in the room. Once you add in the rustle of bags being packed and chairs being scraped back, the noise level rises sharply.

When we've left the room and started walking along the corridor, Ginny turns towards me with a smile. "Let's work on it together!"

It's not actually a question, but it's not like I would have said no anyway. I can only benefit from doing this with Ginny.

"All four of us together," chimes in Tammy, who's obviously had a similar thought.

Ginny nods generously. "Of course all four together."

I take a look at my watch. It's just past noon. "We could get started today, if you're free?"

"We are," answers Ginny, without so much as a look at the other two. (In fairness, I've never seen them do anything without her, so she probably _is_ aware of their plans.)

Holly grimaces at the thought, but nods anyway. "Where do we meet?"

"One of our rooms," suggests Tammy. "Or else, the MCR?"

The MCR is, I think, the Middle Common Room of a college and is reserved for use of graduate students. Ginny, Holly and Tammy are all at St. John's College, which claims to be the wealthiest of them all.

I don't get a chance to confirm though, because Ginny clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "The bedrooms are too small for four people and the common room is too loud," she decides.

"Maybe the library?" Holly adds cautiously.

"It's no good for group projects. If you talk too loud, they are liable to throw you out," reminds Ginny.

When no other idea is forthcoming, she turns her eyes on me. "Where do you live?"

For the briefest of moments, I feel myself hesitating, but then remember that it's foolish. It's not like our address is a big secret or anything. The paparazzi are certainly _very_ aware of it.

"We're renting a house in Jericho," I reply, shaking off the irrational distrust.

A slow smile unfurls on Ginny's face. "Excellent! Quiet and roomy. Let's meet there."

At this, I hesitate again, but this time, it's well-founded. "I don't know…"

We've reached the top of the stairs, but instead of going down, Ginny stops to look at me closely. "Why are you being all secretive?"

"I'm not," I hurry to assure her. "It's just… I have to ask first."

Ginny raises a well-plucked eyebrow. "You have to ask his _permission_ to invite someone over?" Her voice is incredulous and somewhat sceptical, with undertones of something that I can't quite put my finger on.

(Holly and Tammy just turn their heads from Ginny to me and back, like spectators in a tennis game.)

"I _don't_ need his permission!" I clarify, feeling a tad annoyed at the suggestion. "It's a security issue."

"A security issue? What do they think we'd _do_?" asks Ginny coolly. When she glances at them, the other two immediately nod to back her up.

"Nothing at all. It's just procedures," I try to soothe her, taking a deep breath. "Look, I don't make the rules. I just…"

"Follow them?" finishes Ginny for me.

Yes. I don't make the rules, I just follow them.

"I could talk to him," I suggest slowly. "He should be downstairs, waiting to pick me up."

Ginny cocks her head to the side and considers me for a moment. "Well, what are we waiting for?" she wants to know.

Looping her arm through mine, she pulls me down the stairs and towards the exit. Holly and Tammy follow behind us and I think I can hear Tammy murmuring, "Do you think he's on the bike again?" But Holly shushes her and I decide to leave it at that.

Ken is, indeed, already waiting on the other side of the street and he is, indeed, sitting on the bike again. His visor is down, but from the looks they throw his way, more than a few passing students have an idea who he is.

Disentangling myself from Ginny and pushing the left strap of my backpack further up my shoulder, I cross the street and walk towards Ken. (I must stress that it is a _very cute_ crème-coloured little backpack and not one of these ugly monstrosities that far too many people think nothing of hoisting on their backs.)

As he sees me coming nearer, Ken opens the visor. From the way his eyes crinkle, I know he's smiling. "How were classes?" he asks, the helmet muffling the words a little.

"Good, good," I lie, before pointing at the other three waiting in front of the building. "Do you think it'd be possible for me to invite them over tonight? We have to do a group project."

There's not a second of hesitation as Ken answers, "Sure, no problem."

I frown, confused. "Just like that?"

He laughs a muffled laugh. "Why not?"

"What about security?" I ask, feeling my frown deepen. "Don't they have to be vetted or something?"

Ken reaches out a gloved hand to touch my arm reassuringly. "It's fine. Don't worry. Invite them over."

I'm tempted to do just that, but there's something in his answer that makes me pause. It takes me a second or two to realise it's that he didn't actually _deny_ that they need to be vetted. Which can only mean that…

"You did _not_ have all my classmates vetted in advance, did you?" Scrutinising him through narrowed eyes, I try to read his expression, half-hidden by the helmet as it is.

"I didn't vet anyone," he replies, but let's be honest, that's just another attempt at evasion.

"Your hitmen, then," I amend. "And they _did_ , didn't they? Is that even _legal_?"

Ken shrugs. "It was regarded as a precautionary measure. And it's not like they'll ever have to know."

"But it's still… isn't it violating their privacy or something?" I argue. "Especially because it doesn't make sense either. They're _my_ classmates, not yours."

Before he answers, Ken pulls off his helmet. He looks a little dishevelled and I have to resist the urge to reach out to smooth down his hair.

"Yes, they are your classmates and I suspected that before long, you'd like to invite some of them," he explains, sounding as sincere as he looks. "I just didn't want you to feel like you have to ask for permission every time you bring someone over. It seemed easier to do a quick vetting in advance than for you to have to extend all invites days before the actual visit in order to allow for the vetting to be done."

That… that actually makes sense, doesn't it? It's quite thoughtful of him, too. (If at the expense of my unsuspecting classmates' privacy.)

"I guess… I guess that's a fairly good explanation," I admit reluctantly.

Ken smiles. "I'm glad you think so. Now, do you want to invite them or not?"

I nod. "I do. I'll be back in a second."

Crossing the street back to where Ginny and the others are, I announce, "It's no problem. Do you want to come by at six? I can message you the address."

"Are you sure it's not a problem?" asks Ginny, considering me with interest. "You seemed to have had a bit of a discussion just there."

"It's nothing and I'm sure," I tell her quickly and muster a smile. "Is six good for you?"

"Should be doable," agrees Ginny for all three of them.

"Great. See you then!" With which words I raise my hand in a wave and hurry back over to the other side of the street, where Ken has pulled on his helmet again and holds out mine for me to take.

We make it home in a few minutes, which is just as well because it's already past three and I still need to tidy up the house. It's my first time having guests over and even though it's just Ginny and the girls, I still want them to have a good impression. (Grandmother Marilla would be proud of me, I'm sure.)

My sudden domestic activity amuses Ken quite a bit, because he hovers in doorways watching me put away stuff and wipe visible surfaces, a grin ever present on his face. I throw a wet rag at him, but it doesn't do much to deter him, just leaves dirty water splattered all over the floor. Naturally, I make _him_ wipe it away, because obviously it's his fault it happened at all, right? Also, if he's helping, he can't hover and grin anymore, so that's two birds with one stone.

(Originally, Ken planned to have one of the palace staff come up twice a week to do our cleaning, but when I advocated for _privacy_ , he was only too ready to change his mind. Besides, I think he noticed that the idea of having royal staff clean up after me made me feel uncomfortable. Doing the cleaning myself means more work, but I prefer it this way. And since we've discovered that Ken is good with a vacuum cleaner, he's been drafted in to help as well.)

By the time six o'clock rolls around, the house is in a presentable state and Ken has been waved off to the pub to meet up with some classmates of his own, so he won't be getting underfoot.

It's a few minutes after six when the doorbell rings insistently and it's indeed Ginny, Holly and Tammy standing on the other side of the door. (Butcher hovers behind them on the driveway, ready to intervene at moment's notice, but I quickly signal for him to withdraw and thankfully, he does.)

"This is _quite_ a house," remarks Ginny, letting her gaze roam as she steps inside. Tammy, following her, whistles appreciatively.

"It's pretty great," I agree with a smile, pointing them through to the dining area.

Dusk is falling outside, which creates the beautiful effect of a still bright blue sky against the already darkening surroundings. The room's many windows allow for a quite spectacular view of it. (They're also the reasons why I love to be in here during thunderstorms. It's a great place do some lightning spotting.)

"Absolutely gorgeous," declares Holly. "Did it come furnished?"

"No, actually not," I answer, while inviting them to sit at the dining table with wave of my hand. "One of Ken's assistants did most of the legwork in getting the furniture together before I arrived in England, but she consulted with me about what I preferred. It was a team effort."

In fact, Melissa had lots of fun with the decorating. She created a pinterest page for design ideas, sent me several emails a day with pictures of furniture and at least three parcels with colour swatches. Not even my vague responses deterred her, which impressed me enough that I passed her on to Nan in the end. Not only did they seem to get along exceptionally well, they also collaborated to create a beautiful home for us. _That_ was the true team effort, but in my defence, I helped by getting them in touch.

"Where _is_ Ken?" asks Ginny. "Is he around?"

(The nickname is a little odd, coming from her, since she doesn't even know him, but I suppose it would have been even odder if she had used his title.)

"No, he's out to meet some classmates at a pub. I promise we have all the space and quiet we need." I finish the sentence with a smile, but there's obvious disappointment flickering over their faces. I'm not even blaming them either. I reckon meeting a prince would have been quite a big thing for them.

"Next time, then," remarks Ginny casually, her features already back under control. Both Holly and Tammy take a little longer, but end up returning my smile as well.

Nodding towards the kitchen, I ask, "Can I offer you anything before we start? Tea, maybe?" (We _are_ in England after all and you bet Mum gave me a lecture on how people in England drink tea. I was just grateful she didn't bust out any charts.)

"Coffee, please," answers Holly.

Tammy nods her agreement. "Milk, no sugar."

(So not all people in England drink tea. I need to talk to Mum about this.)

"Chai Latte for me," adds Ginny.

"I don't think we have any here," I admit, frowning in thought.

"Oh." For a moment, Ginny lets that hang, before relenting. "A mocaccino, then?"

Turning towards the kitchen, I cast a dubious look at Ken's gleaming coffee machine. It has more buttons and levers than an Apollo spacecraft and to say that it and I are not the best of friends would be an understatement.

"I can try that." But I don't sound convinced even to my own ears.

Apparently, Ginny isn't confident of my success either. "No, it's fine. Make that a normal coffee," she amends.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I can do normal coffee. (At least I'm reasonably sure I can.)

Surprisingly, I manage to get the machine to produce a coffee for each of us without it starting to chide me with beeps and blinking lights (it does a good R2D2 impression when agitated), or spewing boiling liquid all over the kitchen. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I return to the table where the other three have already set up their books and notes and notebooks.

Sitting down opposite Ginny, I open my own laptop and pull my textbook closer. "Well, then. Let's get started. Does anyone have any idea what this is about?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Like a Rolling Stone' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1965)._

* * *

 _To Guest:_  
 _I promise I haven't forgotten George and neither has Rilla :). We will soon learn more about where he is and what he is doing._

 _To Teresa:_  
 _I remember your comment! In fact, I sporadically wondered whether you were still reading or if my story had put you off modern AUs for all eternity ;). That's why I'm very glad to hear from you again and doubly glad your are still reading_ and _still enjoying this! (Of course, your lovely words are not hurting either - they're a balm to any writer's soul!) I also absolutely agree with you about being thrilled to finally have moved this show over the pond. I have been impatient about this for the last couple of months! I have some fun storylines coming up and I hope you will enjoy them. And if, from time to time, you might fell an urge to pop in to tell me that you're still reading and enjoying, the writer's soul won't say no to that either ;)._


	43. The dust of rumors covers me

_Oxford, England  
October 2012_

 **The dust of rumors covers me**

I have just finished applying mascara when I hear my phone ring. Dropping the little tube into the sink, I hurry over into the bedroom, where I spot the phone lying on the window sill.

Caller ID tells me it's Mum. With flying fingers, I disconnect the charging cable and press to accept the call. "Mum? Is everything okay?"

"Of course it is," comes her cheerful answer. "Why would it not be?"

"Because it's the middle of the night for you!" I reply, incredulous.

"A little after three AM, yes," confirms Mum, sounding unperturbed.

I feel my heart slowing down again. At least there really doesn't seem to be anything wrong.

"It still begs the question why you're calling at three in the morning," I remark as I walk back into the bathroom.

"Your father had to go in for an emergency operation and I couldn't fall back asleep. So, I thought I'd call my wayward child," answers Mum, still with the good mood.

"I'm hardly wayward," I protest. "I am just in England."

"But you are awake, which made you a prime candidate for calling," she points out and I guess she isn't wrong about that.

Without waiting for me to react, she immediately adds, "Are you still enjoying England? Are classes fun?"

I can see my grimace in the mirror above the sink, but manage to keep my voice light. "England is pretty. Classes are fine."

"Made any friends yet?" comes the next enquiry.

Mirror Me rolls her eyes. "I'm not ten anymore, Mum. You don't need to worry that no children will play with me in the schoolyard."

"True," she agrees. "Not that I ever had to worry much about you in that respect. Di was the one with an unfortunate penchant for picking exactly the wrong girls as friends."

She was. How she didn't see through some of those girls, I will never know. They were positively awful!

"And Shirley was the one who got pushed around the most," I add.

After all, I should know. I had more than one 'talk' with some of those classmates of his. I may or may not have threatened to start the odd little rumour to get them to leave him alone. In my defence though, I could hardly have beaten them up, which is what Jem apparently did once to great effect when some boy in primary school bullied Walter. It got Jem grounded for a month, but according to Joy, the other boys left Walter alone after that.

Mum sighs. "He was." She hesitates for a moment, before continuing, "I'm not sure how _his_ studies are going. He's not exactly forthcoming with information."

"That's Shirley for you. I'm sure he's doing fine," I try to assure her. "It's not like those computer geeks have anything to pick on him for."

Putting Mum on speakerphone, I balance the phone on the side of the sink and pick up a brush instead. Pulling it through my hair, I consider myself in the mirror, trying to decide how to style it for today.

"No, you're probably right," agrees Mum, but she does it with another sigh. "You're truly alright though?"

My reflection smiles at this. She might like to pretend to be a Cool Mum, but deep down, our mother worries quite a bit about our happiness. "I'm fine," I promise. "In fact, I had some classmates over just Tuesday, so I appear to me making friends."

"Excellent!" exclaims Mum and seems to mean it. "Is everything good with Ken as well?"

"Everything's great with Ken," I confirm. "I wasn't sure how well we'd settle into living together after being apart for so long, but it's going even better than expected. And we just passed the two year mark, which officially makes this the longest relationship I ever had!"

"That's what I wanted to hear." There's a softness to Mum's voice that is proof of her genuine relief. "Is Ken well? How is he enjoying his lectures?"

My hair whipped up in a simple ponytail, I pick up my phone again and take Mum off speakerphone as I leave the bathroom. "Why don't you ask him yourself? He's downstairs, hopefully preparing breakfast."

My stomach rumbles in agreement.

"A full English breakfast? My, how very British of you. They'll have you drinking Earl Grey in no time!" teases Mum.

"Definitely _not_ a full English breakfast," I correct as I walk down the stairs. "I like my arteries transporting blood, not be clogged up by the time I'm thirty, ta very much!"

"Very health-conscious of you," replies Mum, still clearly amused.

"I will have you know that I live very healthily," I inform her. "I ride the bike! Daily!"

Mum laughs. "Consider me shocked!"

"I don't see why you would be," I argue, grinning to myself. "Out of us girls, I was always the best at sports back in school. Nan only did her dancing and I don't think Di ever voluntarily did anything sports-related at all."

I, meanwhile, did track and field in middle school, until it got entirely too sweaty, then played tennis until graduation. It's been a while, but I served a mean topspin back in the day.

"That's true," acknowledges Mum. "Though Joy was the best swimmer."

I wrinkle my nose. "Eh, chlorine. Does awful things to your hair."

"True as well," laughs Mum. "I heard it's been known to turn hair green."

 _Heard_ , huh?

Having reached the kitchen by now, I see Ken sitting at the dining table, his customary morning papers spread around him. When he hears me entering, he looks up.

I toss him the phone. "My mother for you."

"Good morning, Anne," he greets her. "I'm surprised you're already up."

A moment passes as Mum, no doubt, fills him in on what awoke her in the middle of the night. "I hope everything goes well," Ken finally remarks. (It takes me a second, but I think he means Dad's emergency operation.)

Very carefully, I go about trying to convince the coffee machine to supply me with caffeine, softly muttering placating words as I press the necessary buttons. It seems to be in a mellow mood this morning, because it only beeps angrily at me once before producing a perfectly acceptable cup of coffee.

Behind me, Ken is still being subjected to Mum's typical questioning, which Walter once likened to the Spanish Inquisition – with good reason.

"…a new course, so some things can be a bit chaotic," he's currently saying. "Today is the last day of a two-week introductory phase that had us do mostly case study discussions and team-building exercises, so it's a lot different from your usual course curriculum."

Cup of coffee in hand, I turn towards him, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He's perfectly amiable about Mum's questioning, but as I look closer, there's a fine line between his brows that wasn't there when he got up just a short hour ago.

"The other students are a very heterogeneous group, which means the discussions are varied," he continues. "Most of them are in their late twenties or thirties and held jobs after getting their BAs. There are some interesting people among them."

"It also means you aren't stuck between lots of little graduates still wet behind the ears," I point out over my coffee cup.

Ken raises his eyes to give me a brief smile, but there's still that line between his brows and a tension around his mouth that belie his attempts at pretending it's just a normal morning. _Something_ has clearly happened.

Pushing off from the counter, I walk over to sit next to him, leaning forward to get a look at the newspapers. Quickly, Ken raises a hand, as if to pull the papers out of my sight but then, sighing, lowers it again.

"Anne? Can we call you back?" he asks. After a moment of listening, "No, nothing's wrong. I promise. It's perfectly fine. We'll just call you back later, alright?"

I'm vaguely aware of him wishing Mum a good night and cutting the call, but my eyes are already glued to the topmost paper.

' _Barbie's Dream House_ ', screams the headline. Below it is a full-size picture of our living room. A tad blurry, maybe, but unmistakable. Mrs Lynde's quilt is front and centre on one of the sofas.

I feel faintly sick.

Reaching out, I pull the paper closer to me, still unable to take my eyes off it. Below the living room, there are pictures of the kitchen, the dining area, the reception room and even the hall. Our entire ground floor, photographed and splashed over the front page of _The_ _Daily Mail._

And there's no question who did it.

"I showed Holly the guest bathroom upstairs," I murmur, staring down at the pictures. "The others must have taken pictures while I was gone. I didn't realise…"

Ken covers my hand with his own. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

"But… but shouldn't I have… seen through them or something?" I protest weakly. "Shouldn't I have known?"

"How _could_ you have known?" he asks quietly. "It's not like people run around with a sign saying 'traitor' on their foreheads."

I raise my shoulders, finally looking up at him. "But… I should have… I ought to have…"

"At some point when you meet someone, you have to decide to put your trust in them. Some of them will betray that trust," Ken points out gently. "It's happened to all of us. I just wish it hadn't happened to you so soon."

"Has it happened to you?" I ask, though quite how that would make it better, I don't know.

He nods. "Sure. I once had a fling with a woman who then proceeded to sell her entire story to _The Sun_ in maddening detail." He grimaces. "Let's just say no-one at the palace was pleased with me."

"And now they're displeased with me?" The hard knot in my stomach winds itself even tighter.

"No! No, absolutely not!" Ken is quick to assure me. When I lower my head, he slides two fingers under my chin to tip it up again. "Compared to that _Sun_ story, this is _nothing_. Do you hear me?"

I'm not so sure about that. Beneath the pictures and some accompanying text about us living in Oxford together, there's a coloured box headlined ' _Where have all our taxes gone?_ ' Just the first two lines in it make it clear that they're accusing me of greedily spending taxpayer money on what they call out 'illicit love nest'.

"Who paid for our furniture?" I ask Ken, tapping a finger against the paper. Weirdly, I've never thought to ask before.

"I did. Privately. We will make sure to let them know." There's something grim about the way he says it and I hope it's directed at the papers and not at me.

Nervously, I gnaw on my lower lip. "Do I need to… I don't know… repay you? I never asked before. I don't know why. I should have. I shouldn't just have accepted all this without asking."

Ken shakes his head decidedly. "Don't even think about it. I insisted on the big house after all, so it's only fair that I pay to get it furnished."

I don't _think_ that's right, to be honest, but he sounds sure of it and I don't have it in me to argue the point. I'd much rather just believe him.

Wringing my hands, I turn my eyes back towards the paper. "Is there more?" Somehow, I have a feeling that there is.

And yes. There is.

Ken hesitates, but then, with a sigh, he turns a crinkling page, revealing two additional articles. One has a picture of the two of us on his motorbike and the words ' _Mayhem Caused by_ _Motorcycle Menace'_ , with a smaller _'Prince and His Squeeze Panic Oxford Locals_ ' beneath. Below that is a smaller photo of an elderly woman with helmet-like hair, apparently representing the aforementioned Oxford locals and looking Very Indignant indeed.

The other article is accompanied by a picture of me outside some clothes store and headlined with ' _Fashion Furore in the Fortress as Barbie Dresses Ken_ '. (Some distant part of my brain notes that Grandma Bertha would have _words_ about the bad alliteration. It's not like a fortress is even the same thing as a palace, is it?)

Skimming the second article, I realise that this, too, must be the work of Ginny and the others. Of course, it's total nonsense – something about me trying to dress Ken in leather trousers for an official event and the palace having to intervene – but it makes my mind immediately flash back to the conversation we had before classes on Tuesday. I don't think I've ever talked about _leather trousers_ with anyone else, anyway.

Groaning, I fall back in my chair, covering my face with both hands. "Tell me. How bad is it really?"

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "On a scale of 'Persis is not wearing pantyhose for Trooping the Colour' to 'Great-Aunt Tanya marries a pool boy thirty years her junior?'"

Peering at him through my fingers, I can see that he looks much more relaxed than I feel. There's worry in his eyes, but I think it's _for_ me, not because of what I did.

"Yes?" I ask cautiously.

"I'd say this is about level with 'Teddy openly prefers the entrance of Louvre to that of the British Museum'," Ken decides.

Finally lowering my hands, I consider him for a moment. "That's not so bad."

"Not bad at all," he confirms, reaching out to stroke my face. "I promise it isn't. The pictures of our home annoy me, but mostly because _The Mail_ should have known better. The rest is just the usual made-up drivel that they're trying to sell on basis of the one grain of truth in it. Tomorrow, it'll be yesterday's news. If we even want to call it that."

"So… you're not angry?" I ask slowly. The knot tightens again.

But Ken shakes his head. "At you? Not for a second! I'm angry at _The Mail_ , though not actually surprised. Mostly, I'm angry at those girls for betraying your trust."

Yes. There's that.

"I have classes with them in less than an hour," I murmur, swallowing rising nausea.

Ken watches me with concerned eyes. "Do you want to call in sick? Wait until this blows over until you face them again?"

The offer is tempting. Part of me wants nothing more than to take a long bath and spend the day curled up with a book in front of a fireplace, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. But even as I think it, I know it won't do.

"If I don't come, they'll know why. _Everyone_ will know why," I answer as I gather my thoughts. "I don't think they get to have that kind of power over me."

I must appear more confident than I feel, because Ken's lips rise in a smile. "There's my girl! Don't let them get to you!"

Taking a deep breath, I return his smile, hoping that mine won't look as wavering as it feels, and accept a quick kiss. I'm very glad he's not angry about how naïve I was. And, I realise, his support makes me feel a bit better about all of this.

But when, forty-five minutes later, I walk into Seminar Room E, the knot in my stomach is as tightly wound as it ever was.

It's not helped at all by the fact that the first person my eyes fall on is Ginny. Standing directly next to the door, she practically pounces the moment she sees me enter.

"Rilla!" she cries. "I am _so_ sorry! Such an awful thing to do, to betray your trust like that. It's absolutely disgusting!"

I stop in my tracks and stare at her, blinking rapidly as I try to process what she's saying.

"I wish I had known that they were planning this," she continues. "You must believe that I would have stopped them! I never would have allowed them to sell you out like that, but I had no idea!"

Slowly, I shift my gaze from Ginny over to where Holly and Tammy are sitting on the other side of the room. They're both watching us intently, their expressions tight and nervous.

Ginny takes a step to the side, re-entering my vision and effectively blocking the other two. "I can't tell you how absolutely sorry I am."

"I know you're sorry," I reply slowly. "But you're only sorry that one of them was too quick in selling what little you had."

"That's absolutely not true!" claims Ginny. "I didn't know anything until I opened the paper this morning."

She's good. I must give her that. Lips slightly parted and eye wide, she looks the picture of wounded innocence. But the jig is up, as they say. I might be naïve, but not _that_ naïve. She was downstairs with Tammy when those pictures were taken. There's no way Tammy could have done it without her noticing. And Ginny was the only one I talked to about the palace sending Ken notes on dress codes, so that story can't have come from anyone but her.

Besides – does she _really_ expect me to believe that her preferred morning reading is the sodding _Daily Mail_?

Suddenly, I feel very, very tired. "Spare yourself the breath, Ginny. In fact, spare both of us this charade. The only thing I believe you is that you had nothing to do with selling those pictures to _The Mail_ , because you're cleverer than that," I tell her. " _You_ know that in sticking around and lying low for a while longer, you might have gotten some _real_ secrets to sell. That's the only thing you regret about this. If Tammy and Holly had been more patient, this could have been so much worse for me – and so much better for you."

The change coming over Ginny is so sudden and so extreme that it would be fascinating to watch, if it weren't quite so awful. The wounded innocence is gone, replaced by an expression so cold and calculating that I have to stop myself from taking a step backwards.

"You're right," she admits, but there's not even a sliver of regret in her voice. "I would have waited and we both know that I wouldn't have had to wait long. You're desperate enough for friends that you would have spilled all your secrets before long."

The awful thing is… she isn't wrong about that.

"I lost out there and I can't deny it. But on the plus side," she adds, "at least now I don't have to spend any more time with you."

I don't know where I get the composure to nod coolly and remark, "That's one thing we agree on then."

"You bet!" she positively spits, before turning on her heel and marching back to where Holly and Tammy are sitting.

It means that she gets the good exit, so I'm left with nothing to do but jut my chin out, throw my shoulders back and walk to a place at the back end of the room, ignoring all those eyes fixed on me.

Thankfully, Prof Schmitt enters just moments later and loses no time to delve right back into whatever statistical measures he's trying to teach us today. With the other students turned to the front, I allow myself to relax a little bit and ease some of the tension out of my shoulders. But my head remains high, for all those to see who keep turning to snatch a look at me, probably hoping to see me break.

For all my outward composure, it's not that I'm not close to breaking down though. My eyes are prickling and my thoughts are tumbling in all directions.

How could I have gotten it so very, very wrong?

There's no answer to that question, much as I try to make sense of what happened. With my jumbled thoughts, there's also no chance of following Prof Schmitt's explanation, so I don't even try. (There's a nagging little voice in my head telling me that I _should_ , but what does the voice know anyway?)

Almost without meaning to, I pull my phone from my back and position it on my thigh so that it's somewhat hidden by the table. Opening Facebook, I log into my account (which is both super private and easily the most boring one out there) and find myself scrolling through my friends' pages. My _real_ friends.

There's Betty, who still isn't done posting pictures from the wedding and the Caribbean honeymoon. There's Chelsea, who's in Chicago working for a big, important company and obviously thriving there. There's Megan, whose office job is barely worth a mention to her but who seems to love her sports as much as ever. And most importantly, there are Nia and Seraphina, still in New York, still continuing with their studies and looking the same as ever.

I haven't really been homesick since coming here, but right now, the pain hits me so suddenly that for a moment, I feel dizzy.

I want them _back_. I want my friends back. The friends that I've known for ages and through various stages of life. The friends that I'd trust with my life, not to mention the layout of my kitchen. The friends that knew me before I became someone worth knowing for the rumours alone.

They aren't gone and I know that. They're really just a quick message away. But right now and right here, on a rainy Friday morning in the last row of Seminar Room E, it feels like they're unreachable.

My eyes are burning now and there's a lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. Almost angrily, I close the app and drop my phone back into my bag. I _can't_ let anyone see me cry!

I don't cry, not during the lecture nor in the computer class afterwards. How I manage not to, I'm not even sure myself, but it's probably just plain old stubbornness pulling me through. I've always hated to let anyone know that they'd won.

Still, when Prof Schmitt dismisses us for the day, I can feel the relief washing over me. Pointedly ignoring all my classmates, I pack my stuff back into my bag (my notebook is still bereft of notes in a way that can't be good but I can't bring myself to care about either) and finally walk towards the front of the room, where Prof Schmitt is also packing.

"Sir?" I ask politely.

He raises he head and considers me for a moment. "Miss Blythe."

I hesitate, waiting until a large group of students has left the room, until I speak, "I know I indicated by email that I'd do Tuesday's assignment in a group, but I'd rather do it alone after all. I hope that poses no problem."

I really _do_ hope that, because there's no way in hell that I'll ever exchange another word with Ginny or her cronies.

Carefully, Prof Schmitt places his netbook into a well-worn leather bag before he looks up at me again. "Barely two weeks in and our would-be princess is already asking for preferential treatment," he remarks coolly.

 _What?_

I stand as if struck by thunder.

"I'm sorry, but…" I stutter.

"Let's not fool ourselves, Miss Blythe," continues Prof Schmitt. "You and I both know that you didn't get this place because of your excellent academic record. I saw your application. There's no use trying to lie to me."

"I wasn't trying to…" I assure him weakly, but don't even get to finish the sentence, because he silences me by raising his hand.

"There will be people who will treat you like you're special because of who you are dating." A beat as he considers me through slightly narrowed eyes. "I just want it to be absolutely clear that I will not be one of them."

I open my mouth, but no words come.

Shouldering his bag, Prof Schmitt takes a step towards the door, before he looks back at me. "You may do the assignment on your own. I wish you luck."

He says it and sweeps out of the room. I remain where I am, trying to gather my thoughts and understand what just happened. I…. I just don't…

"You okay?" asks a cautious voice from behind me. Turning, I see a girl and two boys standing some steps away, all three looking at me with something that I realise is pity. They must have heard the entire exchange.

Mumbling something that might be constructed as an answer, I turn my back towards them and walk out of the classroom, my steps slow and measured and so unlike how I feel inside. It's all a mess.

I have no idea how I make it home, but I feel vaguely grateful for the rain because at least when it's raining, no-one can see you cry. And I am crying now. I've held myself together all morning but this was too sudden, too unexpected, too _much_ to keep in. By now, I'd give anything for this day to be over!

But apparently, I just don't have that kind of luck. When I finally reach home, dropping my bike on the driveway and stumbling towards the front door, I almost fall over something that, when I bend down to retrieve it, reveals itself to be a folded-up newspaper. (Why is it even here? Shouldn't Ken's officers prevent random strangers leaving things on our doorstep?)

Unfolding it, I take one look at the headline and the two words scrawled atop it and only just manage to stagger into the hall, kicking the door shut beneath me.

 _Heartless bitch!_

And below that, in bold block letters: ' _The feline forgotten by Cinderrilla_ '.

They've even got a picture and it's seeing it that undoes me. There's George, all orange and furry and lovable, staring back at me from the pages of a newspaper and my heart clenches painfully.

It's all so unfair!

I didn't forget him. I never _could_ forget him. The mere thought is inconceivable.

But he's half city cat and the streets of Brooklyn have always been his home as much as my Shoebox was. To pull him out of what has been his territory since birth, only to stick him into the transport box he hates and let strangers handle and carry him unto a thundering airplane, finally to release him in a country that's even less his home than mine… He would have hated it! He's much better off at home, where he can stalk the streets and romance the girls and get his favourite food and his cuddles from Everett and his family.

No matter what the papers says, to take him with me only so that I could live easier, ignoring what's best for him, _that_ would have been heartless. (And he's _fine_! Everett continuously says he is!)

It still hurts though. Out of all my friends, I might miss George the most. I miss his self-righteousness and his arrogance and his entitlement and the way he curled up against my stomach when I went to sleep, all warm and soft and purring in contentment.

It's _unfair_.

With as much strength as I can muster, I fling the paper away from me, not caring where it lands. My unsteady legs give way beneath me and I drop to the floor, curling myself up into a ball, and start to sob.

I don't know how this happened.

Just this morning, I was absolutely happy and now… now…

 _Where_ did it all go so utterly wrong?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Restless Farewell' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1964)._

* * *

 ** _Important A/N:_**  
 ** _Look. First, let me say that I did_ not _plan this. Never has it been my plan to put the story on hold at this very moment and go on holiday, but... I'm afraid that's exactly what's happening right now. I can only stress again that this is_ not _my fault, so in keeping with the spirit of the story, let's blame it on fate, yes?  
Alas, I _am _going on holiday and won't be posting while I'm gone. We must therefore skip two Wednesdays, which means that regular updating will resume on Sep 18th (baring unforeseen circumstances). In the meantime, I am, as ever, looking forward to all your thoughts and opinions. Every little review is appreciated!_**

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Yes, chocolate vanilla fla is acceptable as well. When I was a child, I put chocolate chips in my vanilla fla, so the effect was probably similar ;)._  
 _You do, of course, know where George is now. (His story hasn't come to an end though!) You also know that you were right not to trust Ginny and her Minions. They were fishy from the very beginning and acted accordingly. As for Ken's family, that'll still take a little while, but I promise we're getting there :)._


	44. Name me someone that's not a parasite

_Surrey, England  
November 2012_

 **Name me someone that's not a parasite**

Slowly, I turn the card in my hand. The paper is thick and heavy, the writing embossed in an elegant coppery colour.

 _You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of  
The Hon. Stephen Broderick  
with  
Miss Fiona Hillhouse_

"This looks awfully formal," I point out, not for the first time.

Ken takes his eyes from the road long enough to give me a reassuring smile. "I checked with Steve and I promise it's only an informal gathering of old friends. They had their official engagement party last month. This is mostly just an excuse for all of us to get together again."

"They could have just sent out an email," I mutter, as I absent-mindedly trace the words on the invitation.

"Sure, they could have," replies Ken and stops the car at a red light. "But this looks nicer and from what I suspect, that invitation is probably Vera's doing anyway."

Right. Who was Vera again?

"She's… one of the sisters?" I ask, hesitating as I search my memory for what Ken has told me about the family.

"The older sister," he confirms as he indicates left. "Vera Lloyd. Married to Francis Lloyd. His family is in the shipping business."

I nod slowly. "And the younger one is Hermione?"

"Hilda," corrects Ken, but looking at him from the side, I can see him smile.

"Same thing," I point out with a shrug.

"Very nearly," he concedes. "Their father is Baron Broderick, himself heir to the Viscount Dunsford. Steve is the next in line."

Taking one last look at the invitation before slipping it back into my clutch bag, I grumble, "Seriously, these people should come with cliff notes attached."

"Oh, they already do," assures Ken. The traffic light in front of us changes colour and he gets the car moving again, turning sharply left.

I sit up straighter in my car seat and protest, "I'm being serious!"

"So I am," he's quick to placate. "You want _Burke's Peerage_ or _Debrett's Peerage & Baronetage_. Those are your cliff notes, just a more exalted version."

"Dusty old books with names of long-dead people in them?" I wrinkle my nose. "No, thanks. I'll continue to bother you about information."

"You do that." Reaching out, Ken briefly squeezes my knee, before withdrawing his hand to tackle the roundabout in front of us.

(Roundabouts are the only things that still make my head hurt about this whole 'driving on the wrong side of the road'-business. Not that I'm much of a driver anyway – in five years, I've rarely had cause to put my driver's licence to good use – but even _I_ know we don't have that many circles in Canadian roads.)

"If anyone dared to pass a law that forbade you British the building of new roundabouts, you'd all be traumatised for life," I inform Ken as we enter another roundabout _directly_ after the first one.

"Naturally," he agrees. "Copious amounts of tea would be consumed. We might actually run _out_ of tea."

"Maybe the Americans would send you some?" I suggest innocently. "So long as you hold back on the taxes, of course."

Ken grins. "Of course."

He turns the car to the right, entering a smaller road that leads us towards a wooded area. Ever since leaving the M25 – at least I _think_ it was the M25 – traffic has gotten progressively lighter and our surroundings progressively more rural. We must be nearing our destination and the realisation makes my heart flutter nervously.

"So, you know the groom from school, correct?" I ask Ken. We've entered the woods now and with dusk already falling, the headlights of the PPO's car behind us automatically spring to action, casting a dim light inside our car.

"Yes, we went to Eton together," confirms Ken. "There will mostly be old friends from school or university there, plus significant others."

'Old friends', sounds good, right?

"In fact, some of them have been asking to meet you for a while," he continues, giving me a quick smile. "I'm afraid I _have_ been keeping you to myself a little."

"I'm not complaining," I reply, returning his smile.

If I'm completely honest though, I wouldn't mind meeting a few friendly people in this country. My colleagues at work are mostly nice but also a lot older than me and the situation with my classmates hasn't exactly improved since that _Daily Mail_ front page two weeks ago. I love Ken, but it would be nice to have some proper friends nearby. Maybe his friends won't mind becoming mine as well?

Slowing the car, Ken steers it left and brings it to a halt in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates. Lowering the window, he signals to a security guy on the other side, who, recognising him, quickly springs into action and opens the gate for us to drive through. Behind it, a long winding drive opens up, leading gently upwards to a manor house that looks very much like a box, for a lack of a better word. Sure, it's got a portico and some swirls all over as well as what looks to be a low fence on the roof, but the general shape is very much that of a box.

"We're running a bit late, so dinner should be served soon," Ken remarks after a glance at his watch.

"And after dinner, it's drinks but no dancing, right?" I double check. (The "no dancing"-part is very important to me. I do perfectly well in a club, but if my life depended on me dancing a waltz, I'd be as good as dead.)

"Just drinks and mingling," assures Ken. "Then breakfast tomorrow and we'll be on our way before noon."

Less than twenty hours. That's doable, I think.

The security man at the gate must have radioed ahead, because when we pull up in front of the house, a man in a fluorescent vest directs us to a prime parking space directly opposite the entrance. It's the last free space in a line of cars and I have a feeling they kept it open for Ken. (The PPOs, naturally, just park their car by the side of the house, easily accessible and facing the gate in case a quick get-away should prove necessary. They're paranoid like that.)

Mindful of the gravel, I clamber out of the car, careful not to get my shoes all dusty. By the time I've walked gingerly around it, Ken is already holding his small suitcase and my overnight bag. When I try to reach for my bag, he swings it away slightly, declaring in a conspiratorial voice, "Can't have you carry the bags. They'd think badly of me."

"Suit yourself," I reply with a shrug and a smile, switching my clutch from one hand to the other.

To our left, the PPOs have also gotten out of their car. There's four of them today – Beckett, Saunders, Hanson and another man who's new and whose name might or might not be Beaverstock. I'm quite proud of having learned most of their names by now.

As Ken prefers it for private occasions, the officers take up position outside the building. Therefore, it's just the two of us walking up to the portico, where a man in a tuxedo and a woman in a floor-length fuchsia gown are waiting. (Her dress, I can't help noticing, is a lot nicer than mine.)

"Kenneth!" exclaims the woman loudly once we're within earshot, holding out both arms for him and kissing the air beside his face not once, not twice, but three times. Once she has released him, the man reaches out to clap Ken's back with a "Good to see you, old man!" before they both turn towards me.

I hesitate for a moment, until I feel Ken place a hand on my back and gently propel me forward. "Rilla, these are Steve Broderick and his sister, Vera Lloyd. Vera, Steve, may I introduce Rilla Blythe?"

So, this is the prospective groom and he's greeting the guests at his engagement party not with his future wife but his sister by his side? Odd.

"How do you do?" greets Steve amiably, holding out a hand for me to shake.

Vera, meanwhile, gives me a quick once-over. "So, she does exist. We were beginning to doubt it, considering how well you kept her hidden," she tells Ken with a tinkling laugh.

I'm not quite sure how much I like this remark (or maybe it's the accompanying laugh that sits uneasily with me), but Ken is already moving past it smoothly. "We're here now, so you can see there's nothing to hide." Pointing at our luggage sitting at his feet, he adds, "Where can I put these?"

"Just leave them," answers Vera airily. "Someone will take them up to your rooms."

 _Rooms_? Plural?

Ken's picked up on it as well. "We're fine in one room, Vera." His voice is perfectly friendly, which alleviates what might otherwise be a brusque comment.

Vera pulls a face that I'm sure is meant to be apologetic, but that gives me a sudden flashback to Ginny trying to convince me she wasn't in cahoots with _The Daily Mail_. "Terribly sorry, but that won't be possible. My grandmother doesn't approve of illicit affairs going on beneath her roof."

Excuse me? ' _Illicit affairs_ '?

"No unmarried couples sharing rooms on her watch," chimes in another voice and I turn my head to see a younger woman in a pink dress. Her resemblance to Steve is so strong that she's got to be the other sister. Hilda, was it?

(I wonder if they know they're _so_ like the Bingleys?)

As Hilda leans forward to greet Ken (limiting herself to two air kisses, I notice), Steve grins and shrugs. "She's an old crow, but until grandpa kicks the bucket, she makes the rules, even when she's not actually here."

So, we won't be meeting the old crow, at least. Silver linings and all that.

Vera immediately proceeds to chide her brother on his language, while Ken inclines his head towards me and asks quietly, "Are you okay in a room by yourself?"

"Yeah. Sure," I answer and muster a smile for his benefit. "I lived alone in New York, remember?" (Not that that's true. I had George with me in New York. But I'm not thinking about that.)

Of course, what I really want to say is that the 1850s called to ask for their outdated social rules back, but I refrain from doing so. Insulting your host's grandmother is hardly the way to make a good impression, even if said host insulted her first.

"I actually came to tell you that dinner is ready to be served," interjects Hilda into her sister's sermon on proper language.

Stephen immediately jumps at this opportunity to escape Vera's lecture. "Excellent! Follow me, everyone! I will lead the way."

After exchanging a long-suffering look, his sisters do that just. Ken, his hand still on my back, steers me to follow them, leaving our luggage to wait forlornly on the drive. I sure hope someone will turn up to collect it!

Under the watchful eyes of what must be long-dead ancestors, we enter a wood-panelled dining room that already holds around three dozen people at a long U-shaped table. They all look up curiously as we enter and I need just one quick glance around the room to know that all their clothes are much fancier than mine.

"You are sitting with Giles," Hilda informs me, pointing to an unoccupied seat next to an alarmingly thin man with a sizable moustache. "He's married to one of our cousins."

Good for him, I guess. (If, maybe, not for the cousin.) But why am I sitting next to him?

Puzzled, I turn to Ken, but he is looking at Vera. "Is that really necessary?" There's a sliver of annoyance in his voice now, even as his hand starts to reassuringly stroke my back.

"Couples don't sit together," Vera answers breezily. "You should know that."

" _Married_ couples," Ken stresses.

"Same thing," decides Vera. (Though she obviously doesn't consider it the same thing when it comes to the sharing of bedrooms, does she?)

Stephen reaches out to clap Ken on the back – again. "It's more fun to mix everyone up a little."

Ken doesn't look more convinced than I feel, but then, with a sigh, shakes his head and turns to me. "Are you –?"

I don't let him finish. "Sure. Don't worry." With three dozen people watching me, there's hardly anything else I could say, after all.

Vera nods curtly. "Good. Kenneth, we put you next to Toppy."

That makes Ken stop dead in his tracks. "Is _that_ necessary?" He's not doing much to mask his annoyance anymore.

"It'll be fun," declares Steven, sounding actually convinced of his words. "You two can catch up."

Ken draws in a long breath, but doesn't say anything else.

"Who's Toppy?" I ask instead.

"Lady Thomasina Wentworth-Watson," answers Hilda. "Daughter of the Marquess of Rockingham."

Yeah. That wasn't actually what I was asking.

But there are still a lot of people watching us, now growing slightly restless at us just standing in the doorway, so I give Ken a gentle nudge. "Go. It'll be fine."

He nods, but makes a point to accompany me to my seat next to the be-moustachioed Giles. I'm secretly quite glad about it, too, because I am perfectly aware that all eyes in this room are fixed on me and while it's not a wholly unfamiliar feeling, it's not one I enjoy much. Thus, I am almost relieved when I can finally take my seat next to Moustache Man. At least it puts me level with everyone else, which makes it harder for them to stare.

Ken's place is at the front end of the table next to a blond young woman who greets him with the familiarity of an old friend. Three seats down I spy what must be the bride, though she's so, well, _wispy_ that she might as well not be there. I'm honestly surprised she isn't translucent, given how pale she is.

Moments later, the first course is served, which at least means people turn to their food and stop _looking_. As chatter starts to rise throughout the room, I also concentrate on my neighbour, looking for a topic I can use to strike up a conversation.

Turns out that I needn't have bothered.

Giles of the Prominent Moustache breeds Airedale Terriers. He obviously does this with both dedication and passion. He also talks of nothing else. _Nothing_! From the moment the soup is placed in front of me to the moment my dessert plate is cleared away, it's Airedales this and Airedales that. The only good thing about it is that my participation in the conversation is not required, seeing as Giles needs neither comments nor affirmatives. He even answers his own questions. It leaves me with a lot of time to just nod and stare at the food collecting in his moustache. (My other neighbour is no help, as, for the entirety of the dinner, I only ever see the back of his head.) The entire thing is, as they say, a bore.

It also takes almost one and a half hours, so that by the time Vera finally rises to declare dinner over, I'm bored out of my mind by Airedale facts and slightly nauseous from having to look at bits of salmon _and_ bits of pork getting caught in the moustache, which is an unfortunate combination in any case but especially when facial hair is involved.

When Ken arrives to collect me, I practically jump to my feet. Giles, thus disturbed in his monologue, looks up and blinks confusedly.

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to kidnap Rilla," Ken apologises.

Giles blinks again. "Her name is Rilla?"

"It is," I confirm quickly as I take a step back, the faster to escape him.

"That is an unusual name," observes Giles.

"It is," I repeat, shuffling backwards even more.

Giles raises a hand to thoughtfully twirl his moustache, causing a piece of broccoli to fall out. "I could name a bitch in my next litter for you."

Now it is my turn to stare and blink.

Ken, thankfully, is less ruffled by the oddness of it all. "It was nice talking to you, Giles, but we've got to leave now. See you around." Placing a hand on the small of my back, he gives me a slight push, probably keen to separate me from Giles before I find my voice again.

When I do, all I can offer up is a weak, "Did you know that Airedales are the biggest terriers around?"

"Indeed I did not," answers Ken evenly as he steers me along a corridor and into a well-lit room with green upholstery on the walls. (Seriously, who thinks green walls are ever a good idea? I need to confer with Nan about this.)

Accepting two glasses from a passing waiter, Ken offers one to me. A tentative sip reveals it to be champagne and tasty one at that.

"This is good," I remark, banning any and all thoughts of Moustaches and Airedales from my mind.

"Given that Vera is the one organising this shindig, it would be. I expect the bride's family paid for it though. The Brodericks have the pedigree, but not necessarily the monetary means to back it up," he explains.

(So not _completely_ like the Bingleys, after all.)

Letting his gaze drift through the room, Ken asks, "Are you ready to meet some people? There's quite a bit of curiosity about you."

The nervous flutter in my chest is back, but I do my best to squelch it. Meeting his friends was what I came here to do, after all. "Sure, so long as no-one wants to talk about Airedale terriers," I quip.

"I don't consider it likely, but if someone tries, I promise to steer the conversation towards Yorkshire terriers immediately," Ken replies solemnly, making me laugh.

We don't get to strike up a conversation with anyone though, be it about Airedales or Yorkies, because Hilda choses that moment to appear next to us.

"Do you mind if I steal her away for a moment?" she asks Ken with a sweet smile and a nod towards me.

He shakes his head, his eyes flickering over to meet mine. "Not at all. Anything in particular?"

"Just girly stuff," answers Hilda, still smiling up at him.

With a tiny nod to reassure Ken, I hand over my glass to him and allow Hilda to lead me away. As we walk, she leans closer to me. "I thought you might like to know that your dress is gaping open at the back. There also appears to be a stain."

Immediately, I imagine the entire dress to be ripped open, but when I reach back to check, it doesn't feel so very bad. I don't get time to find out properly though, because by then, Hilda directs me to enter what turns out to be a powder room of sorts. Inside, around half a dozen other women have convened to touch up their make-up and check their hair in the mirror.

"Now, let me see…" Walking around me, Hilda inspects the back of my dress as I crane my neck to get a look myself.

A second passes as I feel her tug at the drees, before she announces, "Looks like false alarm. A button came undone. Probably because Ken has his hand on your back the entire time."

"Perhaps," I concede. "What about the stain?"

Hilda holds up a piece of fluff for my inspection. "Just this. It looked like a stain from afar."

"I can see why it would," I acknowledge. The white fluff on the purple dress would have created quite the contrast.

"That's a sweet dress you're wearing," comments another voice and I quickly turn my head to see that two other women have ventured closer.

I am, to be honest, not quite sure what to make of this supposed compliment to my dress. It _is_ a sweet dress, but it is a dress more suited to a relaxed dinner with friends than to this decidedly posh party. Next to the beaded floor-length gowns of the women around me, it falls short. Quite literally, even.

"Is it from Topshop?" ask the other woman.

But before I can get a word in (it is, in fact, not from Topshop), the first one declares, "It's so nice that ordinary people can buy affordable clothes in shops these days. I hear they used to make them at home!"

Well, shock, horror.

Hilda steps next to me, thus saving me from having to come up with a response. "These are Dizzy and Egg," she introduces, indicating the two women standing in front of us.

I open my mouth to ask and then think better of it. Maybe I don't even want to know.

"We and Ken go way back," explains one of them. (Dizzy? Egg?)

"The Queen used to invite us to playdates at the palace," adds the other one.

"How is the Queen these days?" interjects Hilda and it takes me a moment to realise that she's asking me.

"I… don't know. Sorry," I answer hesitatingly. Something about this situation is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

Hilda considers me with renewed interest. "Do you mean you haven't met her yet?" The tone of her voice leaves little doubt that she considers this a particular juicy piece of gossip.

"Not yet," I reply, my eyes flickering over to the door.

"But surely you are invited to his birthday dinner later this month?" asks Hilda. "It's a small affair. Just him and his closest family."

"Toppy used to get invited," chimes in Dizzy-or-Egg.

"And Tatty went as well in the past," reports Egg-or-Dizzy.

I take a deep breath. "We haven't discussed it yet." It's the best I can do, but even as I say it I know no-one is buying it for even a second. They all three look far too delighted with this bit of news for me to doubt that in twenty minutes, every person at this party will know that I did not get an invite to that birthday dinner.

I need air.

Mumbling some sort of apology, I flee from the powder room, leaving the other three behind to spread their gossip. Not that I make it far, however. Instead, mere meters after leaving the room, I am stopped by the sight of Ken talking to blond Toppy Whatshername.

I'm not the only one to have discovered them either. As I slowly retreat to stand behind a pillar (this house has _pillars_!) I spy Vera standing with a woman in a slightly-too-tight dress and a man who I think is her husband, the shipping guy. They haven't noticed me, given that they're too enthralled by the sight of Ken and what I now suspect to be his ex-girlfriend. I hurry to put the pillar between us, but unfortunately, I can still hear them.

"Look at Kenneth and Toppy! They are such a beautiful couple!" A female voice. Could that be Vera?

"Alas, not anymore." The other woman speaking.

"He'll come to his senses."

"Would she take him back?"

"Sure." The first voice again. "She's still got her eyes on the tiara. Hung around long enough the first time around."

"Before he dumped her for the Canadian, you mean."

"Precisely."

"Any thoughts on _her_?" It's the second woman and I don't care for the tone of her voice.

"I'd tap that for sure!" The man chiming in for the first time.

"She has barely said a word all evening. Either she's boring or a bit slow."

"Who cares what's in her head when she's got pins like that?" A barking laugh. It makes my skin crawl.

"Not Ken. It's not hard to figure out why he's with her."

"She's no princess material and he knows that." Disdainful. Could that be Vera again?

"Aren't they living together?"

"And why wouldn't they? He isn't ready for marriage and there's no harm in having someone keep his bed warm until he is." The woman audibly taps her champagne flute for emphasis.

"Especially someone with legs like those!"

I have heard enough.

Carefully walking backwards, hoping to get noticed neither by Vera and her companions nor by Ken and what I now _know_ to be his ex-girlfriend, I make my way to a door that appears to be leading out onto a veranda. Thankfully, I find it open and quickly duck outside. Only then do I notice that I have held my breath the entire time.

Withdrawing into the shadows by the side of the veranda, I lean back against the rough façade of the house and close my eyes, willing them to stay dry.

"Miss?" asks a low voice next to me. "Are you alright?" I don't even have to check to known that it's Hanson.

"I just… need a moment," I answer, opening my eyes to look at him. "All of this…" But I have no words, so just vaguely wave my hand in direction of the party.

"It's a unique kind of world," he replies knowingly and not for the first time, I wonder what secrets these officers keep.

"It is," I agree wearily.

Hanson pauses, as if trying to decide what to say. When he does, he intones his words carefully. "I don't know if it helps at all and I hope that the reminder of my very happy marriage will keep this from sounding creepy, but you're much prettier than them."

For a moment, the unexpectedness of his statement startles me, but then I can't help but smile. "It helps. Thank you."

"Anytime." A second passes, before he nods in direction of the house. "He's looking for you."

And indeed, when I turn to look through the window, I see that Ken, while still talking to that Toppy, is quite obviously searching the room with his eyes.

I push away from the wall. "I'd better go inside."

Hanson nods. "Chin up, Miss. The best way to annoy them is not to let them see that they're getting to you." Tapping two fingers against his temple, he melts away into the darkness, leaving me with nothing to do but to re-join the party.

When I step back inside, Ken's eyes find me almost immediately and he stretches out a hand for me. Squaring my shoulders and raising my chin, I go to join him and that Toppy creature. (She does not deserve to share half a last name with Frederick Wentworth, I've decided.) If this is about keeping up appearances, I think I can do that.

Ken wraps an arm around my waist the moment I reach him. "Rilla, this is Toppy Wentworth-Watson. Toppy, may I introduce you to my girlfriend, Rilla Blythe?"

Well, at least we're batting for the same team here.

Toppy considers me. Her lips are smiling, but her eyes remain cool. "Nice to meet you. I was just talking to Ken about that one time we went sailing in the Solent. Right, Ken?"

Pausing, Ken lets a loaded moment pass before finally replying, "No, I don't remember. Sorry, Toppy."

It's a lie and not a good one. I'm grateful for it anyway.

Toppy, on the other hand, obviously takes offence – or else it's my presence that doesn't sit well with her – because she doesn't stay long after that, finding some excuse that allows her to march away without losing face. I'm not sorry to see her go.

She is, very quickly, replaced by other people who are all very happy to see Ken again and very happy to finally meet me, but after the third or fourth, they all sort of start blending together. I try to pay attention, I _do_ , but by the time I'm shaking the hand of the sixth man in a tuxedo, I have no idea who he is. Luckily, no-one seems to expect me to contribute much to the conversation anyway, so I mostly get by with smiling and nodding and intermittently assuring Ken that I'm alright.

When, sometime around midnight, I notice the first people starting to take their leave, it's a welcome opportunity. 'Chin up,' Hanson said and I _do_ keep it up, but it's an exhausting thing to do, especially around a bunch of people that are apparently only too willing to stab me in the back when Ken isn't looking.

It takes some coaxing until he finally believes that I'm okay, just tired, and that I'd really like to go to bed now, but he does eventually let me go. If, however, I had hoped I'd escaped the barbed slights for the evening, I am out of luck. It becomes apparent when the liveried man leads me to a room not on the first but up on the second floor.

I've watched enough of _Downton Abbey_ to know that these were – and might still be – the staff quarters. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this is the final put down planned for me.

And yes, looking around the tiny room with its single bed and its chipped sink and low ceiling, one thing is certain; I wasn't given this room to appease Grandmother Broderick. It was given this room to show me my place. This entire evening has been orchestrated to show me my place. A place that, if these people are concerned, is miles and miles below them.

So much for making friends, I guess.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966)._

* * *

 _A/N:_  
 _I'm back! A little bit earlier than usual, even, because I'm dead on my feet and my bed's calling my name. (I'll get to all pending answers and replies in the next couple of days as well. Promise!) And yes, I_ know _it's as dire as ever. I'd love to say that things are looking up in the next chapter but that would be lying, so... I won't be saying that. I_ can _promise_ _though_ _that eventually, things will improve. In the meantime, please do keep the comments coming, even if they're chiding me for what I'm putting Rilla through. I still cherish them all!_

* * *

 _To Mammu:  
You're right, the bad things are certainly accumulating for Rilla right now and we're not even at the lowest point of the curve yet. Alas, the nice thing about curves is that they have to point upward again eventually, so I can definitely promise sunrises after the storm for the future. Just not quite yet ;).  
Holiday was great, thanks for asking. Lots of sightseeing and a fair bit of travel involved, so I'm not utterly sure how relaxing it was physically, but mentally, it's always good to get away from the daily drudgery. And I love seeing new countries, so that's definitely two birds with a stone!_


	45. The second hand unwinds

_Surrey, England  
November 2012_

 **The second hand unwinds**

I don't dare to let down my guard until I'm back in Ken's car the next day. Sinking down heavily in the seat, I watch in the side mirror as the seat of the Broderick family slowly disappears from view and breathe a long sigh of relief.

At least _this_ is over.

I basically only made it through breakfast by attaching myself to Ken's elbow and making sure he never got out of earshot. Not that I don't hate how needy and insipid it made me look, but at least with Ken close, I was safe from more veiled insults. I've found that they don't dare be openly hostile to me when he's close, which says rather a lot about them, if you ask me.

The driveway makes a slight turn to the left and the reflection of the house is gone from the side mirror. Instead, when I angle my head slightly, I can see my own face looking back at me. I woke up with decidedly puffy eyes this morning, but Youtube wouldn't be Youtube if it didn't have a tutorial for that. Thus, my eye make-up might now be too heavy and too dark for a normal Sunday, but at least it elevates me from 'cried herself to sleep last night' to 'just a little tired'. Given the company, the too heavy make-up was absolutely the lesser evil.

In front of us, the cast-iron gate comes into view.

"I was surprised you stuck to the rules about separate bedrooms," Ken remarks as he steers the car through it and out onto the public road. When I turn to look at him, he throws me a quick smile.

"The penguin wouldn't tell me which room was yours," I explain, trying to sound casual. "Besides, I bet you were given a nice, big, fancy room on first floor, so I would likely have been discovered if I had attempted to sneak down."

Ken frowns. "Why 'sneak down'? Where was your room?"

"Second floor. Which apparently you didn't make much of an attempt to find out either." In some rational part of my brain, I know it's unfair to attack him for something he had little control over, but he's the reason I had to be there in the first place, right?

"I didn't want to wake you up in case you had already gone to sleep," Ken tries to defend himself. "I just had some hope you'd be there in my room when I came up."

"I certainly imagine your bed was more comfortable than that _plank bed_ they had me sleep on. It wouldn't have been out of place in some country prison in the 19th century," I mutter darkly.

Steering the car around a corner, Ken appears to take a moment to gather his thoughts. "Was there an issue with your room?"

"Not at all. I'm sure that in bygone centuries many a scullery maid thought it a perfectly adequate place to sleep," I reply sarcastically.

"I'm sure it wasn't…" begins Ken.

"It was!" I interrupt. "I've watched enough _Downton Abbey_ to recognise a servant's bedroom when I see one. And while I absolutely wouldn't mind sleeping in one in general, I don't much care for the message they sent out by putting me there."

He takes his eyes off the road for long to give me a look that is mostly questioning and a little impatient. "I'm sure they used every available room in the house," he points out, sounding maddeningly reasonable. "A lot of guests weren't put up in the house at all but relegated to outbuildings or even accommodation off the estate altogether. And I didn't confirm your attendance until fairly late, so what with the rule of not sharing, they put you up where they had space."

"God," I breathe. "Have you always been this gullible?"

A moment passes before Ken asks, "Excuse me?" His voice is quiet, but strained.

"I'd be surprised if there ever was a No Sharing Rule and if it existed, I bet it didn't apply to anyone but us!" I argue, my own voice rising. "It was just about separating us and putting me where they think I belong."

"Where you _belong_?" He's clearly irritated now.

"Precisely." I nod curtly. "It was all very _Upstairs, Downstairs_ , except that instead of downstairs, they put me _up_ -upstairs. But the message was crystal clear. As was their intent all last evening."

There's a roundabout ahead and Ken has to brake a little too hard to keep the car on course. Behind us, the PPO's car flashes its headlights warningly.

"So, I take it you didn't enjoy yourself," Ken finally remarks. He doesn't look at me. Instead, he's staring straight ahead at the road.

I scoff. "Are you _kidding_ me? I can't say for sure if it was the very worst evening of my life, but it was certainly up there. These people are just _awful_!"

" _These people_ ," he repeats, putting a strange emphasis on the words, "are my friends."

"I have no idea why they would be," I murmur darkly.

"They are perfectly nice once you get to know them," Ken argues.

I let my silence express my doubt.

He, of course, knows me well enough to pick up on it. "I'm sure they meant nothing by assigning you to that room and apart from that, I didn't notice anyone being unfriendly to you." There's a note of finality in his voice that tells me he'd like to give the subject a rest now.

Naturally, I'm not having any of it. "That's because they generally waited until you were out of earshot to insult me!"

A red light forces us to a stop, but Ken doesn't look at me. He's staring ahead, his fingers impatiently drumming on the steering wheel. I purse my lips, waiting for him to react first.

As the light turns green and he restarts the car, Ken sighs a long, weary sigh. "Tell me what you felt they did to slight you?"

"You want the list? Sure! We've already got the made-up rule about separating unmarried couples and giving me the least nice room in the entire house. We also can't ignore the nifty trick of putting me next to the most boring guest for dinner." As I speak, I tick off the point with my fingers. "And _then_ there's the dress code."

"What _about_ it?" asks Ken. He changes gears with more force than necessary, causing the car to emit a protesting sound.

"What dress code did they tell you applied?" I know the answer, of course, but I'm making a point here.

He throws me an impatient look. "Tuxedos for men, cocktail dresses for women."

"And did you, by any chance, notice that I was the only one there _not_ wearing an evening gown?" I want to know, my voice rising again. "They deliberately told you the wrong dress code so I'd be underdressed!"

"I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding. If I misheard, I apologise." He's trying to downplay the matter, but what good does that do now?

"You let me walk into a room full of uber-posh people in an outfit that made me look like I couldn't dress myself appropriately! Or worse, that I couldn't _afford_ it," I accuse. "And rest assured they wasted no time to let me know!"

"What did they say?" he asks, his voice tight. I'd love to pretend his annoyance is directed at the people who belittled me for my choice of dress, but I know that it's really about me turning this into An Issue.

Balling my hands into fists, I take a deep breath to bring my voice back under control. "After Hilda tried to unsettle me by pretending my dress was torn open in the back, I was kindly informed by two figures called _Egg and Dizzy_ how lovely it is that Topshop now sells clothes to ordinary people to replace the homemade ones we _peasants_ used to wear!"

"They're just jealous," Ken replies irritably. "You're three times prettier than them on any given day. God knows Egg's called that because of her egg-shaped head and Dizzy got her nickname because she's so dizzyingly tall. No designer dress in the world will ever make them pretty enough to compare with you and they know it."

The words themselves could be considered complimentary, but the way he virtually throws them at my feet doesn't make me inclined to accept whatever praise of my looks might be hidden between the lines.

Instead, I turn toward the next topic because obviously, he doesn't _want_ to understand what the wrongly relayed dress code signifies. "Then what about your _ex-girlfriend_ trying to exclude me from the conversation by mentioning the fun times you two had sailing? The ex-girlfriend, mind, _who I didn't even know would be there_!"

"I didn't let her exclude you, did I?" Ken shoots back immediately. "And I didn't realise Toppy being there would be a problem for you. I thought we were past that."

" _We_ might be, but that awful Vera certainly isn't!" I point out, doing little to keep the indignation out of my voice. "It's not like she missed any opportunity to hoist _Toppy_ on you! In fact, I had to listen to her rhapsodise about what a nice couple you to make and that I'm just there to keep your bed warm until you turn towards a more suitable woman!"

"Nonsense," snaps Ken.

Behind us, the PPO's car flashes its headlights again and when I look over at the speedo, I can see that we're going more than a little too fast. Ken, too, notices it and brakes abruptly, lowering the speed to just below the limit.

" _Is_ it nonsense?" I want to know. "These so-called friends of yours certainly did a good job of showing me that _they_ don't think it is."

"They _are_ my friends," insists Ken. "I can't imagine they did all those things on purpose. I've never known them to be anything but friendly."

" _Of course not_!" I cry. "You're at the top of the food pyramid. These people would sooner hack off their arms than stop sucking up to you and risk being excluded from your presence by being banned to social Siberia. Leeching is the very mark of a parasite, after all!"

Ken slams the steering wheel with his palm, making me flinch.

"Would you _stop_ calling them that?" he demands.

"Parasite?" I ask sarcastically. "Sorry, only speaking the truth."

But Ken shakes his head. " _These people_. Stop calling them that."

"As long as they do everything in their power to try and make me feel worthless, I will call them anything I like! _These people_ , parasites, snobs. It's not _my_ fault if the shoe fits!" I ball my fists even tighter, feeling my nails dig into the skin.

"You made up your mind about them long before that!" claims Ken. "In fact, you did it before we even arrived when you said that _these people_ should come with cliff notes. It was right before you made fun of my country for having roundabouts."

That draws an incredulous laugh from me. "I was _joking_! You know, funny, haha? That kind of thing?"

Before us, another roundabout looms, because _of course_ it does.

"And that means there's no truth in jokes?" asks Ken tersely as he slows down the car just enough to navigate the road ahead. "There were plenty of people present who were curious to meet you and were disappointed by how little you talked to them. But your mind was already made up, wasn't it? In your own way, you're as snobbish about this as you accuse Vera and the others of being."

For a moment, the sheer audacity of that statement robs me of my speech and I just stare at him, open-mouthed. He looks ahead resolutely.

"That's rich!" I exclaim once my voice cooperates again. "And I _refus_ e to allow you to make me the villain in this. Not when I spent the better part of a weekend being shown my lack of worth by –"

" _These people_?" finishes Ken for me, voice dangerously low. "If by 'these people' you mean anyone born with a title, I'll have you know that I am one of them."

He's certainly acting the part well!

"Well, that fits, because I'm beginning to think you also don't consider me worthy of being anything more than the girl you fuck until you find someone more suitable," I hiss.

Ken slams his foot on the brakes and with a screeching sound, the car comes to a stop. I fall forward, before being jerked sharply back by the jamming seatbelt. The PPO's car, I notice distractedly, has to veer into the other lane to keep from crashing into us. Thankfully, there are no other cars to be seen.

"What _the hell_ is your problem?" snarls Ken, finally turning to look at me.

" _My_ problem?" I instinctively sit up straighter. "What is _yours_? Or rather, what is your problem with _me_ that after two bloody years of dating, I not only don't get invited to your birthday dinner, I don't even know it's even _happening_?"

He clenches his jaw. "Who told you about that?"

"Not _you_!" Because really, that's all that matters, right?

Ken makes an impatient sound. "Look this is –"

" _Complicated_?" I interrupt. "What is complicated about it? I know Toppy used to get invited and so did Tatty. What is wrong with me that you can't show yourself with me at a family dinner? Is it that I don't have a title? Is it that I don't have a ridiculous nickname beginning with T? What's the _problem_?"

Before he can answer, there's a knock on the window making Ken jerk his head around. On the other side is Beckett, a frown on his face. I turn to the left and stare out of my own window even as I hear Ken lower his. " _What_?"

"Is everything alright, Sir?" asks Beckett, his voice more even than mine would be after being addressed such.

"Fine," snaps Ken. "Just… wait over there or something."

"Very well, Sir," agrees Beckett. (Seriously, is he a saint?)

A softly whirring sound indicates that Ken is raising the window again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Beckett retreating, but I don't turn around. Instead, I stare into the distance where a train is passing by. With the window back in place, silence fills the car, stretching and expanding until I think I must choke on it.

Still keeping my gaze resolutely ahead, I inhale deeply. "I went to that party hoping to meet some friendly people. I left it with the knowledge that there's not a single person in this entire country who likes me."

Only now do I turn my head and find that Ken is looking at me, our eyes meeting even as the distance between us seems to stretch out, too far now to be bridged by touch. "I do," he replies quietly.

"I know." Because I do. "It's just that you're the only one. My classmates don't like me, my professors don't like me and your friends don't like me either. It's like being with you makes me unacceptable to one half of the people I meet and where I came from makes me intolerable to the other half."

I can see Ken swallow visibly, but he doesn't say anything in return.

Thus, I continue, though my voice is all weird. "I never wanted to give you that talk about how much I gave up for you because that's such a bloody cliché. But I did. I gave up an awful lot to come here and be with you. I put thousands of miles between myself and my family, myself and my friends. Hell, I even deserted my _cat_!"

My voice catches in my throat and I have to take several deep breaths before I can speak again. "I just… I just need to know that this… that you and I, that this means something. That I'm not just here because I happened to be around when you had a temporary spot in your bed to fill."

"Is that really what you think?" asks Ken, so quiet that I almost don't hear it.

I shake my head. Then nod it. "I didn't. I truly didn't. But knowing that I'm not even invited to your birthday dinner… that, after two years, I'm still no step closer to meeting your family… what am I _supposed_ to think?"

Ken reaches out a hand almost automatically, but pulls it back before he can touch me. "Not that. I… I wanted you to come. To the dinner. To meet my family."

"But?" I ask softly when he doesn't say anything more. Part of me is almost afraid of hearing the answer.

Ken turns his head, looks out through the windshield again as too long a moment passes in silence.

"My mother –" he finally begins.

I don't let him finish. "Oh, _please_. Give me a break!" If anger was replaced by sadness just minutes earlier, it's now rearing its head again. Because I've heard those two words too often, it seems.

Watching him from the side, I can see a shadow of _something_ pass over his face. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, a definite edge to his voice.

"That I'm tired of having your mother thrown at me as an excuse every time you lock me out of your life," I answer, trying to make it sound reasonable rather than accusatory and not really succeeding.

His jaw clenches and when he speaks, it sounds like he's forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "It's not an excuse."

(And here I was thinking we were making progress.)

"It sure _feels_ like one." My own voice, I can't help noticing, is rising again, despite my attempts to keep it under control.

Ken is still staring ahead. "You don't know anything about my mother," he states brusquely.

"And why is _that_?" I cry out, all hope of control now forlorn. "You never talk to me about her! There are only ever veiled hints about her being unwell and whenever I dare ask anything, you clam up and leave the room. How am I _supposed_ to know anything if you don't tell me?"

"I don't have to talk to you about _every darn_ _thing_." He positively spits out the last words.

I scoff. "No. I have no hope of _that_ ever happening. I just think it would be nice if you at least talked to me about the important things, but you aren't even doing that. I get fobbed off with trivial matters and am supposed to be grateful that you deign to speak to me at all!"

He shakes his head, a short, abrupt movement. "That's not true."

"So prove me wrong! Tell me _now_!" I challenge, knowing full well that he won't do it.

And he doesn't. Instead, his face tells me that he's closing off completely. "It's not for me to tell."

"It _might_ be. I'm not asking for your mother's deepest secrets. I just… this is weighing on you and if you'd just help me understand…" I'm begging now, I realise, but not even caring. I have a feeling that if only I could get him to _talk_ to me –

Alas, it's not happening.

Instead, Ken jerks his head around to finally look at me, but when he does, I immediately wish he'd look away again. There's something in his eyes that makes me recoil instinctively. His voice is low and warning. "What makes you think you have any right to know anything about my mother?"

A mirthless laugh passes my lips. "Oh, I don't know!" I exclaim sarcastically. "Maybe I thought being in a two year-long relationship with you meant I deserved a little honesty, but I'm beginning to see that's not the case. Instead, I'm increasingly coming to understand that your friends were right to question the veracity of what we have. It certainly doesn't look like much right now and I'm wondering if it ever was."

Ken makes an impatient movement with one hand. "Stop talking such nonsense."

" _Nonsense_?" I repeat, my voice tripping over itself in disbelief. "How can you call it nonsense when you're so careful to keep me ignorant about so many things in your life? There's hardly anything you don't know about me, but I sometimes feel you might as well be a stranger for how little I know about you!"

He looks at me, his face unmoving except for his grinding jaw. I suddenly feel close to tears.

"What does it take, Ken?" I implore. "What does it take for me to prove myself? What does it take for you to trust me?"

"I do trust you," he replies tersely.

"Then why won't you _talk_ to me?" I have to speak around a lump lodged in my throat and it makes my voice sound like it belongs to stranger.

A long second passes as we just look at each other, me furiously blinking away tears, him clearly fighting to keep his expression emotionless. There's so much _there_ , just below the surface, but even now, he won't let me see.

"It's –" He breaks off abruptly, shaking his head.

But I know what he meant to say.

"Complicated," I whisper, the fight leaving me with a single breath.

We're back to square one.

And suddenly, I can't stand it any longer. I can't sit here, in this too small car, for one more second. Not with him next to me and all the things he's not saying filling up the space and making it hard to breath.

Throwing the door open, I practically flee the car, taking a few steps to get away from it and only stopping when I feel I can breathe again. My hands grip my handbag tight enough to turn my knuckles white and the cold November air stings my face, but it's a welcome pain.

There's no chance in hell of me getting back in there. Not when Oxford – it's never felt less like _home_ than it does now – is still more than an hour's drive away.

Behind me, I can hear Ken get out of the car as well. When I turn to face him over the hood of the car, there's a new kind of determination flooding through me that allows me to keep my head high.

"What do you think are you doing?" he asks brusquely. His PPOs, I notice, are moving closer, obviously equally unsure what to make of the situation. Their expressions leave no doubt at how uncomfortable they feel at having to bear witness to this.

"I will walk to that village over there," I tell Ken with as much calm as I can muster, "and take the train home from there. I think you and I need some space."

For a second, I think he will protest, but then he moves his head slightly, obviously realising that we have an audience, and swallows whatever he meant to say. Instead, he barks, "Hanson! You go with her."

To my left, Hanson raises his head, looking clearly alarmed at being dragged into this.

"He will do no such thing!" I snap, keeping my gaze locked on Ken's. "In case you have forgotten, _I'm_ not the one who needs the babysitters around. My background might not be good enough to pass muster in your friends' eyes, but at least it allows me to go _wherever_ I want to, _whenever_ I want to. Alone!"

Once again, Ken seems to go through a selection of possible responses before, still mindful of our company, he settles on a curt, "You put too much faith in our railway system."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Given that I don't think you have any kind of personal experience with public transport, I'm going to take my chances."

It's low and I know it. So does he, judging from the shiver that passes over his face. But we're long past being polite and it all feels too fraught for me to try. Instead, without another word, I turn around and set foot on the path that leads through a field and towards the village a short distance away.

Knowing that, if I were to turn around, I'd find him looking, I make a point not to. I just keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, tears burning in my eyes, trying not to think about what just happened – or what it could possibly mean.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Time After Time' (written by Cyndi Lauper and Rob Hyman, released by Cyndi Lauper in 1984)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Hello, hello! How are you doing? I hope school's still going well? :)_  
 _Yes, Fiona definitely isn't as "highly" born as Vera would have liked her brother's future wife to be! She's wealthy, but of what they call "new money". The Brodericks can use the money she brings into that union, but they would have liked her even better with a title. In fairness though, Steve himself doesn't care, so at least they've got that._  
 _As for Fiona's future role, I haven't yet decided whether I plan to utilise her again, but if I do, she'll lean towards supporting Rilla, if only to annoy Vera. She doesn't like Vera much, which definitely counts in her favour!_

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Hello, welcome and thank you very much for your reviews - both this one and the other one over on 'Dark Clouds'. I'm very glad that you're enjoying both stories and that you've reached out and commented! I always love to hear from readers :)._  
 _I'm not exactly nice to Rilla at the moment and I know it. I'm even a little bit sorry about it. Problem is, I do like a bit of conflict now and then, and my characters have to live with the consequences of that ;). In my defence, things will be looking up soon. We're pretty much at the lowest point of that particular emotional valley, so it can only improve from here on._

 _To Mammu:  
Oh, absolutely! ;)  
Sadly, snobbery comes in many shapes and sizes, but however it manifests, it's always awful to be made to feel like you don't belong. I promise that we will get to the sunsets and tiaras for Rilla, but it's _a long and winding road _, to keep with my song lyrics theme.  
As for Ken... well, you've got some of his thoughts in his own words now. Feeling more inclined to forgive him yet? ;) Rilla doesn't, so it's alright if you don't. It's going to need more than this to resolve their current differences and let me just say... your mention of Jake was a most excellent one!  
Steve, bless him, is very much like Mr Bingley. As he will be described later by someone who should know: _"Steve's as harmless as a teddy bear, but also has the all perceptiveness you'd expect from a stuffed animal." _He really is that clueless, but he's not cruel. Basically the exact opposite of his charming sisters._


	46. It's time to lend a hand

_Oxford, England  
November 2012_

 **It's time to lend a hand**

I feel like hitting something. Or someone. Preferably with this tome of a textbook that doesn't make a lick of sense.

The only thing that makes even _less_ sense is the assignment I'm trying and failing to do for Prof Schmitt's class. I just about scraped a pass in the first one (the silver lining being that just the third counts towards the final grade) and this second one is… not exactly looking much better. In fact, I'm absolutely sure that I have no hope whatsoever of passing this one. It's all… gibberish.

Of course, this entire situation isn't helped by the fact that my concentration is entirely shot to pieces.

When I arrived home late last night – tired, hungry, rumpled and slightly damp from an unexpected downpour that caught me while I was waiting at an uncovered train station that could absolutely provide the background for one of those World War Two movies the English love so much – Ken wasn't there. There was just Hanson leaning next to the front door, telling me that due to an early appointment in the city, Ken had gone to stay at Kensington Palace for the night and would I permit him, Hanson, to tell him, Ken, that I had arrived home safely? (I did permit it. No need to make this more difficult for poor Hanson.)

I passed a lonely, fitful night with so little sleep that when I got up this morning, I felt even more tired than when I went to bed yesterday. After two nights of too little sleep, my entire body is screaming for rest. My arms are heavy, my head is woozy and my eyes are teary from sheer tiredness. I want nothing more than to curl up somewhere, to sleep and to forget.

But there's nothing to be done. If everything else is going to pieces, the least I can do is try not to fail my course before even reaching the end of the first trimester. Which is why despite the tiredness and everything else going on in my mind, I dragged myself to the Social Sciences Library (which is so generic and un-Oxfordian that it could be anywhere), in the hope of getting _some_ work done at least.

If only it weren't so _complicated_!

Sighing, I let my head drop forward into my hands. The wetness in my eyes isn't from tiredness alone anymore. I have no idea what this assignments wants me to do, nor what this book is trying to tell me.

"You ok?"

Abruptly, I drop my hands and whip my head around, to face whoever dared approach me.

It's a girl from my course. She's one of the students labelled 'teacher's pets' by Ginny. Her name is…

"I'm Lucy," she states. "And you need help."

That is so utterly true, I can't even argue with it.

"Come on. We're sitting over there." Lucy points to a table that is occupied by two young men who raise their hands when they see me looking. Turning back to my own table, I realise that Lucy is already gathering my stuff into her arms, leaving me with no option but to either go with her or make a scene.

Going with her seems much the preferable thing to do and thus, I find myself trotting after her to the table.

"These are Dev and Josh," introduces Lucy, "and we all know who you are."

I twist my mouth into a sort of nervous smile. "Hello."

"Sit down," invites the man called Dev. "I promise we don't bite. Lucy just likes to collect strays and you look like one. She's been wanting to add you to her collection for a while."

Lucy rolls her eyes at him, but nudges me towards a chair opposite the two men and I carefully sit down.

"Have you had breakfast?" she asks as she plops down in the chair next to mine.

"I… wasn't really hungry this morning." And I truly wasn't. I barely managed to swallow three spoonfuls of cereal before forcing down half a cup of coffee.

"I have chocolate," offers Dev with a winning grin.

"And you can have some of my tea. If you want to, I mean," adds the other one, Josh, smiling shyly and holding up a thermos flask.

Thus, before I even have a chance to protest, I have a cup of steaming tea placed in front of me and a chocolate bar pressed in my hand. My stomach rumbles in appreciation. (My head is wondering whether tea and chocolate are truly allowed in this library, but there's no-one there to tell us off and I _am_ suddenly feeling hungry after all.)

"What are you working on?" asks Lucy, her hands hovering over my notes. When I nod, she pulls them towards herself and starts perusing them.

"We've just finished up this week's essay for Sociological Analysis," Dev informs me, now munching on a large piece of chocolate as well.

(Does it need mentioning that I still have to do that one as well?)

"I'm working on Prof Schmitt's second assignment," I tell him. "It's not going as well as I'd like it to."

"Don't you have someone to do it with?" asks Josh tentatively.

I shake my head. "I was going to do it with some classmates but… that fell through."

"The St. John's Harpies sold her out to the papers," interjects Lucy, still bend over my notes. "Remember?"

Both men nod, looks of sympathy crossing their faces.

"The St. John's Harpies?" I repeat in wonder.

Dev grins. "That nasty Ginny and her cronies. They're at St. John's College, so we call them the St. John's Harpies."

"That is… certainly fitting," I admit slowly. "I still don't know how I could get it so wrong with them."

"That's because you're pretty," blurts out Josh. Seconds later, upon realising what he has said, he turns an interesting shade of red and lowers his head in embarrassment. Next to him, Dev guffaws loudly.

I try to suppress a smile, lest he think I am laughing at him. "That's nice of you to say." (And it is. It's the nicest thing I've heard in a while.)

"What Josh means," chimes in Lucy, "is that you're the type to run with the popular crowd normally. I bet they never picked on you in school, so you never had to develop a radar for their nastier tendencies."

Frowning, I think her words over for a moment. "You know… you might be right there."

Lucy shrugs modestly, as if to say that she usually is. Then, sliding my notes back towards me, she tells me bluntly, "You really need help on this."

I sigh. "I know I do. I just don't get it."

Dev passes over another piece of chocolate and pats my hand in sympathy.

"You have a degree in economics, don't you?" Lucy inquires, looking thoughtful.

I plop the chocolate into my mouth before answering, "Yes. And I was somehow foolish enough to think I could keep up in a sociology course when I know next to nothing about it."

"This isn't sociology. This is statistics," points out Josh, cautiously resurfacing from his moment of embarrassment. His face is very nearly back to its normal colour.

"Even worse," I groan. Dev hands me more chocolate.

Lucy shakes her head, tapping her pen against my textbook. "It isn't. If you managed to get an economics degree, these statistics assignments shouldn't rightfully pose a problem to you."

When that just draws a confused look from me, she elaborates, "There's a lot of maths to this and a lot of logic. It doesn't even have anything to do with sociology per se. People use these statistical methods in a number of fields."

Josh nods to back her up. "It is very basic."

"Very basic," repeats Lucy.

"Think Adam and Eve," adds Dev.

I blink at them. "What do _they_ have to do with it?"

"What Dev is saying is that they started us at the very basics of statistics," explains Lucy. "The very lowest rung of the ladder. You don't need any pre-knowledge to get this. You just need to listen and pay attention."

"I… might not have paid as much attention as I should have," I admit ruefully.

The three exchange a glance, before Dev shoves his entire chocolate stash over to me in one fluid motion, obviously having decided I need it more than he does. He might be right, too.

"We have paid attention," Josh states, his cheeks colouring once more. "We will help you."

The question is past my lips before I have a chance to hold it back. "Why?"

Lucy grabs a piece of chocolate and, chewing, considers me for a moment. "Because someone needs to."

That, too, is an unshakeable truth.

And thus, they all three team up not only to walk me through that recalcitrant assignment but to take me all the way back to the first seminar and explain all the things I should have paid attention to and didn't. They're so nice about it that I find myself wondering several times whether they're just doing that so they can sell _The Daily Mail_ a story about my academic incompetence, but it doesn't _feel_ that way and anyway, what would it even matter at this point?

By midday, Lucy declares us to be done, extracting a promise from me that they be allowed to go through the material of the Qualitative Methods course with me next week, now that they've roughly brought me up to date on Statistical Methods. (I'm not sure I grasp it all yet, but I must concede that Lucy was right. It's a lot of maths and logic.) With no time left for lunch, it's quite convenient that they serve us sandwiches before the weekly departmental seminar, attendance of which is regretfully mandatory.

As with all other seminars, I've sat alone in the departmental one ever since my confrontation with Ginny more than two weeks ago, so it feels very different to be entering it in the company of others. It's a _good_ kind of different though. Josh sits on my left and makes sure I understand what the Very Distinguished Guest Speaker is on about, while Dev, on my right keeps me in a steady supply of gummy bears and amusing commentary.

When I take my leave from them afterwards, I can't help reflecting that if this is what comes out of Lucy picking up strays, I don't mind being one, just this once in my life.

My mood has been lifted to such a degree that, upon cycling home, I have, for the first time in weeks, eyes for my surroundings. For the towers and the spires, the grand buildings and the narrow streets. Even the sun is peaking through a blanket of grey clouds, as if to round out a day that began bleak and now looks more hopeful than any day in recent weeks.

At least it does until I turn into our street, take one look at the number of PPOs present and know for a fact that Ken is home.

Nodding at Butcher in passing, I unlock the front door and cautiously step inside. "Ken?" I call out tentatively.

"Meow."

I stop dead in my tracks.

"Meow."

"Georgie?" I whisper.

And yes. Sitting in the middle of the hall, looking to all the world like he belongs there, is George.

 _George!_

Too stunned to grasp even one coherent thought, I instinctively drop to my knees and hold out my arms to him. He stalks closer, head high and tail lightly swaying from side to side. When he's within reach, I immediately gather him up into my arms and cuddle him close, pressing my face into his fur.

"Meow!" protests George and wriggles to be let go, but I keep him close for a little while longer. There's fur between my lips and fur tickling my nose and possibly even fur in my eyes ( _when_ did I start crying?), but I don't care one bit.

George!

" _Meow_!" insists George, bracing his front paws against my chest and trying to escape my hold. Laughing, I loosen my embrace and allow him to stand on his own four paws again. (He's never been much of a hugger.)

George is decidedly well-pleased with not being crushed anymore and immediately lets me know by climbing to stand on my folded legs and butting his head against my hand. When I comply by giving his ears a good scratch, he closes his eyes in bliss and starts purring delightedly, his entire body vibrating. I don't know whether to laugh or to cry and end up doing both.

A shadow falls over us. George ignores it, but I look up at Ken.

"You did this." It isn't a question.

"Jake and I together," he amends.

"Jakey?" I ask in wonder. My fingers slow in their ministrations for a moment and George presses his head against them, compelling me to continue.

Ken carefully lowers himself to the floor, settling himself just a step or two away from us, without once taking his eyes off me.

"Jake called me a while ago," he explains. "Told me I wasn't keeping my side of the promise. That you were lonely and unhappy. I couldn't even argue with him. You were lonely. _Are_." He shakes his head slightly.

Leaving George's ears be, I let my hand stroke the length of his back, causing him to angle himself so I can better reach the scratchable spot right in front of his tail. As I scratch him there, I watch Ken from beneath lowered lashes.

"I don't know how to help you make friends here – God knows my attempt last weekend backfired spectacularly – but I thought I could maybe bring a friend _to_ you," Ken continues, looking down at the rug where his hand is absent-mindedly drawing patterns. "I asked Jake to investigate how George was doing without you. I could tell how much _you_ were missing him. Every time you sat on a sofa, you started to stroke a blanket or a cushion without noticing it, like part of you was still expecting him to be there next to you. I… I couldn't imagine him doing much better without you."

"Everett said he was well. I asked him for regular updates," I interject quietly, even as I still try to wrap my head around what he told me about me instinctively expecting George to be there, even when he wasn't. I never noticed!

Ken looks up at me and shakes his head again. "Turns out your old neighbour just didn't want to upset you. George point-blank refused to enter his flat, instead spending half his days on the fire escape in front of your former apartment. The woman renting it now is no friend of cats and apparently tried everything to shoo him away, but he wasn't budging."

Instinctively, I close my arms around George again, my eyes filling with tears. "Sorry, Georgie," I whisper into his fur.

"Meow." George bumps his head against mine.

"Jake got Joy involved and together, they talked to that Everett fellow about bringing George to you," adds Ken. "He had no objections, so they prepared everything George needed to come here. I organised his travel. I know you didn't want to subject him to it, but I promise he got the best treatment money could buy."

(At least her involvement explains the cryptic message I got from Joy during the departmental seminar, asking me if everything had gone well.)

Mulling his words over in my head a little, I realise, "Your appointment this morning. It was to pick him up."

Ken nods. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

And _what_ a surprise it was!

"Thank you." My voice sounds hoarse, though whether from feelings or from the fur I inhaled, I don't know. (Probably both.)

George has taken to grooming whatever part of me he can reach, purring contently as he does so. Right now, his rough tongue is licking the inside of my arm, which is the tiniest bit uncomfortable and more than a bit unhygienic, but who am I do deny this expression of fondness?

Ken is watching us but makes no attempt to scoot closer. Instead, his mouth twists into a mirthless smile and he turns his gaze away again. "It was only when I was on my way back from the airport that I realised you might not even want him here now. That it would make it all that much more complicated for you."

I need several seconds to understand what he's saying – or rather, _not_ saying – but when I do, I extract my arm from George's grooming session and reach out to touch Ken's hand, to make him look at me.

"We fought. That doesn't mean I'm leaving." A beat. "Unless you want me to?"

"No!" The word comes without a moment of hesitation and I breathe a sigh of relief. (George wriggles around so he can now groom my other hand.)

"So we agree on that," I remark when Ken doesn't offer up anything else.

"Yes." He sighs. "I messed up. I'm sorry."

I don't contradict him. He does look very contrite and I am beginning to feel sorry for him, but there's nothing to be gained by me downplaying what happened just so he can feel better.

"If it helps any, I banned Vera and Hilda to Social Siberia. I can send Toppy with them if you want to." He hesitates for a moment. "I'd like to keep Steve around though. We go all the way back to Eton and he… he's a true friend."

Frowning, I consider him. "I never asked you to ban anyone anywhere, much less Social Siberia," I clarify. (George stretches out to sniff my hair, placing both paws against my chest.)

"I know you didn't," agrees Ken. "I decided that on my own. They were trying to belittle you and I don't want them around either of us."

Yeah. Me neither.

"Stephen was friendly," I tell him slowly, reflecting back on the weekend. "A bit clueless maybe – no, not the _face_ , George! – but not unkind either."

George, thwarted in his attempt to take his grooming session to my face, considers me with a look of utter betrayal. Turning, he attempts to escape from my lap, but I hold him back, ignoring his wriggling. I'm not letting go of him this easily, nor this quickly!

"I'm as clueless as Steve is," Ken points out with a wry smile.

I incline my head to nod, but don't rub it in. We did the accusations yesterday and that didn't exactly lead us anywhere. Besides, there are more important things I need to know.

When I loosen my hold on George, he makes no further attempts to escape, instead accepting some more stroking. (His fur, I can't help notice, is coarser than I remember it to be.) Looking down at his content little cat face, I take a deep breath and ask Ken, "Tell me, please. Is your family against meeting me?"

I don't intend look at him, but automatically raise my head when I hear him laugh quietly in response. "I can promise you that is absolutely not the case."

That… does surprise me a little.

"I thought they might be," I admit reluctantly.

"They've been asking to meet you ever since I came back from New York," assures Ken.

I frown, now honestly confused. "Then why…?"

Ken shakes his head, thus silencing me. "Because I was being selfish." He says it frankly, with no pretence or attempt to evade me.

Absent-mindedly splaying out my fingers, I bury them into George's fur. "I don't think I understand," I admit.

"See, the thing is…" He seems to search for words for a moment. "Once I introduce you to my family they will try to absorb you. My father and Persis will, anyway. I didn't want to share you, so I kept you to myself."

Searching his face, I see no dishonesty there, but there are still too many questions not answered. "I… I still don't understand."

Ken nods, pushing his hand though his hair in apparent frustration as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "With you, I never have to be anything but myself. When I come here, I can… _shed_ the public persona. I can never fully do that at the palace. Introducing you to my family will mean that you will become a part of _that_ life as well and I… I tried to preserve our little parallel world for as long as possible. It wasn't fair to you and I realise that now, but it's what happened."

I take a few moments to think his words over, one hand rhythmically stroking the back of a purring George. "It _wasn't_ fair to me," I finally state, looking up to meet Ken's gaze. "But I understand what you're saying."

He takes a deep breath. "Thank you."

"I want to meet them," I add. Not that my heart doesn't flutter nervously at the very thought, but it's _time_ I met them and anyway, I'm many things, but not a coward.

"You will," promises Ken.

Searching his face for a moment, I see a certain apprehension there and need only a moment to understand. "But not at your birthday dinner."

Ken breaks off the eye contact, shaking his head. "I wanted you there. Truly, I did. My father initially agreed but then…"

"Your mother," I finish for him.

"Yeah," he sighs. "She _is_ unwell. It's not an excuse. I'm not making it up. When my father says she isn't up for it I can't disrespect that, much as I want you there with me."

Sensing me tense up, George raises his head questioningly. I bend down to drop a kiss between his eyes, which he reacts to by vigorously rubbing the spot with a paw.

"I can't tell you everything about my mother," Ken continues, still not looking at me. "It _isn't_ my story to tell."

I swallow heavily. He's been so very honest so far and now… now we're back to this.

But he isn't done talking. "I _can_ tell you my part of the story. What it did to me, I mean. Her illness."

Sitting very still, I barely dare to breathe. Even George has stopped moving, his head now settled on his paw and he himself snuggled in my lap.

When Ken speaks again, it's so quiet I almost can't hear him. "When I was a child, away at boarding school… my greatest fear was that I'd one day come home and she wouldn't be there anymore."

In the first instance, I think he's talking about his mother leaving, about a divorce and a broken family… but then he looks up, pure anguish in his eyes, and I know that that's not what he means at all.

"She's… better now," he continues, wetting his lips nervously. "It's never been as bad again as it was then, but… we don't upset her. It's the one rule we all live by. We never, ever do anything that could possibly upset her. Do you understand that?"

His eyes are begging me for understanding and I find myself nodding slowly. "I think I do."

And I mean it.

Ken lets go of a long breath, finally reaching out to claps my hand in one of his. Raising it to his lips, he presses a kiss to my knuckles. "You will get to meet her. All of them," he promises. "And I will do better from now on."

"You brought me George," I remind with a tentative smile, looking down at the now dozing cat in my lap.

"I hope – well, Jake and I hope – that maybe you won't be as lonely with him here. I know it doesn't compensate for what happened last weekend or for what your classmates did, but…" He leaves the sentence hanging.

"But I missed him. I missed him something terrible," I finish.

"And he you," points out Ken, reaching out his free hand to touch the cat's head. George flicks an ear in irritation but keeps his eyes resolutely closed.

We both lapse into a short silence after that, me looking at George and Ken, I notice, looking at me. Finally, he offers, "I might have an idea for my birthday. I still have to make some calls, but we have almost the entire day before I have to show myself at Buck House for that dinner."

"More friends of yours?" I ask, feeling reluctance rising within me at the very thought.

Ken shakes his head. "Not friends, per se. More of a… second family. You'll understand when you meet them."

Hm… now _this_ sounds interesting. But he looks tired by now and I instinctively know he's already told me more in the last few minutes than he has told anyone in a long while, so I don't push the matter.

Instead, I remark casually, "I might have made some potential friends of my own today. Classmates of mine. They helped me with that dratted assignment I didn't understand."

Ken's face visibly brightens at this. "That's great!"

"Uh-huh." I nod. "Of course, they could also just be out to photograph our bedroom for the _Mail_ , given that they didn't get a shot of it last time."

"Could be," concedes Ken, but without appearing to really mean it. "I don't think so though."

"Why not?" I enquire sceptically, inclining my head to the side. "You don't even _know_ them."

He takes a moment to answer, squeezing the hand he still has clasped in his. "I know _you_. You're easy to love."

That is enough to draw a smile from me. "You _would_ say that," I chide him anyway. "You're biased."

"I am," agrees Ken with a smile of his own. "I _do_ love you, after all." Then he leans forward to give me a kiss of the kind that is short but ever so loving.

(George, thus disturbed in his beauty sleep, mewls in protest.)

His face close to mine, Ken pushes some wayward hair behind my ear, before adding, much quieter, "Thank you for putting up with me."

My smile grows softer as I reach up to cover his hand with my own. "Anytime."

"Meow," agrees George.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'We Are the World' (written by_ _Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie_ _, released by_ _USA for Africa in 1985_ _)._

* * *

 _To Guest:_  
 _Hello, hello and thank you for being in touch! :) Very happy to hear you've been following the story and even happier to know that you're enjoying it!_  
 _For my part, I truly enjoyed your review. While I was reading it, I was basically nodding along and thinking to myself that "yes, that's very true". Ken was the more obviously clueless of the two of them during that argument and he's utterly bungling this "including Rilla into his life"-thing, but that doesn't mean Rilla is entirely right or justified in her reaction. She's definitely picking a fight, she's showing her own brand of snobbery towards Ken's peers and she's not doing much for a peaceful resolution of their argument. Of course, she has the previous experience of being badly treated by Ken's friends and that influences her behaviour, but she doesn't handle this perfectly at all.  
My intent was for both of them to be partly right and partly wrong during that argument, but it's always a bit trickier with a first person narrator. I don't want too go do deep into the writing details of this, but because we're spending our time in Rilla's head, she obviously presents a biased view of what's happening. That's why it's not always easy to show her failings when she doesn't actually acknowledged them (or maybe even tries to hide or misrepresent them), which is why your reading of her behaviour delights me especially. She's a flawed person (just like Ken is, for that matter) and my aim is to show her as such. Therefore, what you wrote about her truly made me glad! In fact, if you'd like to, I'd absolutely love to hear from you again :). Even if not, which is perfectly alright as well, I definitely hope you will continue to enjoy the story!_

 _To Mammu:_  
 _So... Ken got George! You called it! ;) Does that make you feel at least a bit inclined to forgive him? Not that he hasn't earned a bit of wrath for his behaviour in the previous two chapters for being unsupportive and unfair and not very willing to see Rilla's side of the story. Like I said in the above reply, I really tried to write their argument in a way that has them both be partly right and partly wrong. However, given what Rilla has been through during that weekend, I'm more inclined to cut her some slack, even though she could also be handling this much better. You're absolutely right that she needed to say what she said for them to have any chance at resolving this and Ken didn't do a stellar job of reacting well to what she told him. I loved what you said about wondering what Ken keeps inside though, because there's obviously a lot there that he isn't sharing yet. He's being a bit more open in this chapter (and I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts about it!), but there's more to this entire thing than we know yet and it affects him more than anyone realises - and I'm inclined to say he doesn't wholly realise it himself either.  
As wished for, they did make up though, so that's good news, I hope ;). What do you think? Was it convincing? Can they build on that? As always, I'd love your input!  
_

 _To JoAnna:  
Wow, thank you! That's really lovely of you to say and very much appreciated! "Something special" is definitely high praise and I can only hope my stories will continue to live up to it ;).  
Shall I tell you a secret about the nicknames beginning with T? When I named Toppy, I didn't immediately realise how similar her nickname was to that of Tatty. By the time I did notice, Toppy and her name were already to ingrained in my head to change anything, so I figured the best course would be to own it and make "ridiculous nicknames beginning with T" a thing. ;) Look out for more on the matter in the next chapter.  
Great call about Jake getting involved to help resolve the current problems! Of course, he can only do so much, but he very much did get involved and to send George as an intermediary was a very good idea. (I also imagine that he told Ken a few things about Rilla being unhappy that Ken didn't share just there.) Like you, I'm inclined to lean towards Rilla's side of their argument (even though she most definitely could have reacted better s well!) and Ken definitely needed to hear what she had to say to him during their fight. Given that the actual fight is now resolved - even if not all problems have magically disappeared - I'd be very interested in hearing what you make of it!  
_


	47. Never knew what friends we had

_Kent, England  
November 2012_

 **Never knew what friends we had**

"Déjà vu," I remark with a wry smile as our car rolls through the wrought iron gate.

"Different house, different people," reminds Ken. Reaching over, he squeezes my knee reassuringly. "It will be different this time," he promises. "And if it isn't, you only have to say a word and we're out of there."

Looking at him from the side, I playfully blow a puff of air into his direction, making him smile.

"Shall I turn around right here?" he asks.

I make a point to consider the question, before shaking my head. "No. Let's give them a chance."

"As you wish." He turns his head, his eyes meeting my own. "But remember – one word."

"One word," I confirm, smiling to show that, for the time being, I am truly alright.

As the driveway describes a wide bend, I observe idly, "It doesn't look so very different here."

"We're _miles_ further east," point out Ken. "Canterbury is just a stone's throw away and if we drove onwards to the coast just a little, we'd reach Dover and Folkestone. Actually, the Canadians had a large presence there during the Great War. In Shorncliffe Camp."

I hum to show that while I've been listening, I could not be less interested and Ken laughs. "No more history," he promises.

Another bend, this time in the other direction, and the house comes into view. It does look different, I have to admit. Grey bricks where the other one was reddish, and an actual overhanging roof with lots of high chimneys that combine to save it from being too boxy.

Parking the car next to the main entrance, Ken turns and looks at me. "Last chance to turn back," he offers

"No-o," I drag out the word as I peer past him at the house. There's no-one to be seen yet.

"You don't sound convinced," he remarks, reaching over to fold my hand in one of his.

"It's fine," I assure, though somewhat hesitatingly. "At least I think it is. I'm just a bit nervous. And I'm worried about George. Do you think he's alright without us?"

He's been here for barely three weeks and while he took possession of the house with typical self-assuredness, I still can't help but worry how he will do on his own. I've only started letting him outside under surveillance this past week, so he can't even apply his old tactic of simply prowling the streets until I come back.

Ken is already scrolling through the contacts on his phone. "Let's find out!"

Moment later, the name of Saunders flashes on the car display and the familiar dial tone fills the air, followed shortly by Saunders's voice. "Sir?"

(Poor guy has been drafted to not only secure the house in our absence but also do the cat sitting.)

"We're wondering how the cat is doing," explains Ken without further ado.

"Very well. Last time I checked, he was asleep on one of the couches," replies Saunders. "I'll go back to give him his lunch in two hours."

Raising one eyebrow questioningly, Ken wordlessly enquires whether that is enough reassurance for me. Slowly, I nod. He squeezes my hand in return.

"Thank you, Saunders. We might call again later," he says out loud for the officer to hear.

Saunders chuckles. "Anytime, Sir."

Cutting the call with the press of a button, Ken asks, "Feeling better?" There's a glint in his eyes that tells me that finds my obvious concern a little amusing, but he's being very good about this otherwise, so I let it slide.

"Yes, better," I confirm with a nod.

"Great." He smiles. "And remember, it's just for one night."

"Or shorter if I say a word," I remind.

He nods. "Or that." With a quick look at the house behind him, he adds, "Ready to go?"

I take a deep breath. "As ready as I'll ever be."

I wait next to the car until Ken has taken out our suitcase and walked around to offer me a hand. The PPOs, I notice, keep their distance today, though whether that's for my benefit or because they're more familiar with this house and the people in it, I don't know.

As we approach the house, the front door swings open, revealing a tall woman who looks to be around sixty years old. "Kenneth!" she exclaims with a wide smile and stretches out both hands towards him. "We have missed you!"

Ken briefly lets go of my hand and allows himself to be drawn into a hug. "It's nice to see you again, Genie. Thank you for having us."

The plural pronoun moves the general attention over to me. Released from the hug, Ken firmly grasps my hand again and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

The woman turns her smile on me. "You must be Rilla."

"Lady Faversham," I greet nervously. (I studied the relevant Wikipedia page and I'm reasonably sure that's the correct way to address a countess.)

But she just laughs and waves the titles aside. "None of that, my dear. Call me Genie."

"Like in _Aladdin_ ," supplies Ken helpfully.

Genie lightly swats his cheek. "Not like in _Aladdin_ , you terrible boy." To me, she explains, "My full name is Eugenia, but I must have been a very genial child, because someone came up with Genie when I was young. It's an awful pun, but it's what I'm stuck with."

"Mummy's the president of the Society of Odd Nicknames," announces another voice to my left.

Turning my head, I see a much younger woman approach us and don't have to ask who she is. She looks every bit as gorgeous as she does in the magazines that still occasionally try to marry her off to Ken.

"Do you want to become a member?" she asks me, bright eyes considering me with interest.

"Tatty," warns Ken quietly.

She dismisses that with a dramatic eye roll. "Oh, be quiet, Ken. Can't you see we're bonding?"

We _are_?

Genie shakes her head at her daughter and reaches out to pat my arm. "I'll leave you children to it. Will you show them their room, darling?"

Room. Singular. That's a definite improvement.

"Will do," promises Tatty. She looks at her mother's retreating form for a moment before turning back to me. "We could get t-shirts."

I need a moment to realise she's back to the Society of Odd Nicknames.

"You should feel honoured to get an invite," she adds. "It's highly a selective group."

"I imagine Toppy got invited?" I ask, then bite my tongue the next second. I have no idea what made me bring her up.

Tatty cocks her head to the side. "Heavens, no! I suppose she and her ridiculous nickname would qualify but inviting her would mean being in the same society as Toppy and who actively wants that?"

Ken makes a noise as if trying to protest, but Tatty quietens him by holding a hand close to his face. "No-one but you liked her and it's time you face that fact, Ken. It always bamboozled me that you saw anything in her at all."

"She has exceptionally good hair," I point out.

"She does, maddeningly enough," agrees Tatty blithely, before reaching out to examine a strand of my hair. "Yours is pretty, too. Is that your natural colour?"

"You can't ask people if they have their natural hair colour, Tat," interjects Ken.

But Tatty is unperturbed. "Didn't you just watch me do it?"

Her statement, both correct and unexpected, makes me laugh and she smiles at me – the same wide, inviting smile her mother has. Ken shakes his head, but he, too, is grinning.

"It is natural," I confirm. "My hair, I mean."

"Lucky you," sighs Tatty, fingering a strand of her own very glossy locks. "Mine is so boring in comparison."

I want to protest and say it's a beautiful colour, but she is already moving on to other matters. Turning to Ken, she tells him, "Daddy is in the library. I'm sure he'd be happy to see you. I'll show Rilla up to your room in the meantime."

Ken hesitates, the grin slipping from his face. "Tat…"

Tatty studies him for a moment before her own expression softens, growing serious. "It's _me_ , Ken," she reminds him gently. "You don't have to protect her from me."

For a moment or two, they hold eye contact, before Ken nods very slightly and turns towards me. "Are you okay with that?"

"I am," I confirm – and mean it, too. Something about Tatty makes me feel like I really don't need to be protected from her.

"Good." Ken draws up our clasped hands and presses a quick kiss to the back of mine. "But remember – one word."

"One word," I repeat with a smile.

Tatty has already picked up our suitcase and now motions for me to follow. "We put you two in your usual room," she informs Ken over her shoulder and I file that information away for future use. I know he spent a lot of time with the de Duras family when he was a child, but still – I don't imagine there are many places where he has a 'usual room'.

Tatty leads me along a corridor and up a grand-looking staircase. "It's sweet," she tells me conspiratorially once we're out of Ken's earshot. "He usually isn't this protective."

"I don't need him to protect me," I clarify quickly. I mean, I'm secretly quite relieved he's making a point to be attentive today, but I don't want anyone to think that I _need_ his protection. I held my head high at the Broderick party after all, even feeling awful throughout.

"Didn't say you did," replies Tatty amiably. "I'm just thinking that Toppy _wishes_ he ever looked out for her the way he does for you." The thought seems to fill her with delight.

Having reached the first floor landing, she motions for me to walk down yet another corridor. (I sure hope I won't get lost in here.)

"You've known him for a long time, haven't you?" I ask.

"Ken? For quite a while," replies Tatty with a shrug. "Our mothers are best friends and we're close in age in age, so we grew up alongside each other. My half-brothers from daddy's first marriage are a lot older than me and his siblings are a few years younger, so our friendship came naturally. We had lots of playdates and got into a fair few of scrapes. Once, he almost managed to drown me, my kitten _and_ himself in a big truncheon of rainwater. He also sucked his thumb very persistently when he was young."

A surprised burst of laughter escapes me. "I'm sure he wouldn't be happy if he knew you're telling me this."

Tatty remains unconcerned. "I asked him. He said it was fine."

"You asked him whether you might tell me about him sucking his thumb?" I'm veering between amusement and incredulity now.

Grinning, Tatty shakes her head. "No, but I _should_ have! His face would have been most amusing!"

Yes, I imagine it would have been.

"Actually," she continues, now more serious, "I checked whether there was anything he wasn't comfortable with you knowing."

I'm not sure what to make of this and it must show on my face, for Tatty hurries to add, "I always do that with anyone we meet. It's easier for me to know in advance how careful I must be around a person."

"And when you asked about me…?" I trail off.

"He said we were fine to talk about whatever. No restrictions," is her prompt reply. "I take that to include embarrassing childhood stories."

She winks conspiratorially, before opening a door to her left and waving me inside what turns out to be a bedroom. Given the grandeur of the house, I unconsciously suspected something large and posh, but this one is surprisingly homey. Cosy, even.

"His usual room," I realise.

Tatty shrugs. "He's not over much anymore – neither am I – but he used to spent chunks of his childhood here with us, especially after the old Queen died. Queen Alexandra."

"He was…" I hesitate as I do the maths in my head. "He was eight years old when she died, wasn't he?"

"Eight and a half," confirms Tatty. "Most people I know were terrified of her, but she invited him around regularly to the big palace with a view to raising him into a good monarch. I don't think he enjoyed it much but she was a constant during his early years."

"And after she died and his mother became unwell… he spent a lot of time with you or with his aunts and uncles, correct?" I ask.

I know most of what she's telling me, except maybe the details about Ken's grandmother because he doesn't talk about her much more than about his mother. But with Ken, I usually have to piece the information together. He only offers them up in bits and pieces, whereas Tatty gives me a more succinct overview.

Dropping our suitcase in the middle of the floor, Tatty plops down on the bed. "With us, with his Aunt Mary and her brood or with Caroline, the first wife of his Uncle Al. I think Caroline and Leslie bonded over the experience of marrying into the firm and though Caroline finally got permission to divorce Al after the old Queen was dead, she always stayed in contact."

"The firm?" I repeat, coming to sit down beside her.

"The royal family," she clarifies. "They call themselves 'the firm' sometimes, to signify that besides just being a family, they're very much also a family _business_."

"The business of representation," I add.

Tatty nods. "Quite."

Absent-mindedly picking at a wayward thread of the blanket, I remark, "He takes his duties very seriously."

It's something I've noticed even more since moving here. His workload was reduced to allow time for studying, but he's still juggling a royal schedule in addition to classes.

"When he's not postponing a fortnight worth of engagements at no notice to rush to your side, he sure does," agrees Tatty with a smile. "Toppy _wishes_ he'd ever done that for her!"

"How long did they date?" I ask curiously.

Frowning, Tatty thinks that over. "Around two years, I think. He was going through various stages of jet training for the entirety of their relationship though, which meant that she was in London and he at some RAF station up north. They didn't see each other all that much and I always got the vibe that she was too eager and he not eager enough. I don't really like her, but I did have a talk with him about stringing her along out of convenience. He ended things before leaving for New York."

Looking at her from the side, I realise that she has _power_ , for a lack of a better word. The way she talks about him is so obviously sisterly that I don't really feel threatened by their closeness, but in the way sisters or almost-sisters do, her opinion carries weight with him. (Which I know all about, of course. Me moving continents was no reason for my sisters to give up the weekly Skype chats, if only so they can continue to analyse my life. It meant I had to do some mental acrobatics in recent months to hide how badly things were going for a while.)

I don't get a chance to explore the subject any further though, because there's a knock on the door. Tatty throws me an expectant look and I only need a second or two to understand that she does it because for the time being, this is my room. Expecting Ken, I call "Come in!"

But when the door swings open, it reveals a young woman standing on the other side.

"Katie!" exclaims Tatty, getting up from the bed. "Come here and meet Rilla!"

Not that I needed the moniker to identify the woman on the doorstep. I've seen pictures of her before and what's more, I've seen her during the royals' annual Christmas walk on TV. This is Princess Katherine of Hereford, daughter of the aforementioned Uncle Al and Aunt Caroline and if Tatty is spirit family, Katherine is the first member of Ken's real family I get to meet. (The first royal, too. Except for Ken himself, I mean.)

When I slowly get up from the bed and walk over towards her, I am greeted by a warm smile. "I'm Katie. Nice to meet you."

"You, too," I reply and shake the offered hand.

"I was just telling Rilla about what a holy terror Ken was as a child," chimes in Tatty.

Katie rolls her eyes heavenwards. "Oh, he was awful sometimes. The most well-behaved child whenever Grandmother Queen was around, but when he and Chris teamed up to tease me, they made me cry more often than not."

Chris, I remember, is Prince Christopher of Hereford, Katie's older brother.

"Has Chris finally arrived?" Tatty wants to know. Aside to me, she remarks, "He knows to time his arrival so that no-one could possibly miss it." (Which I take to mean he's usually late.)

"He's downstairs talking to Ken and Rolly," answers Katie.

"Rolly is my father. Short for Roland," explains Tatty when she seems my questioning expression. "Also a member of the Society of Odd Nicknames."

Katie nods. "And while he and Chris are doing a valiant job of keeping Ken occupied, he's getting a bit fidgety with you two up here."

"Worried about what embarrassing things I might tell her?" grins Tatty, obviously mentally going through a list of stories she could share with me.

"More like worried that you'll suddenly transform into Vera," amends Katie.

Tatty grimaces. "Whatever possessed him to bring you into Vera Lloyd's orbit first thing, I will never know," she tells me. "I gave him a stern talking to for it."

"Ye-es," I reply, drawing out the word. "So did I." The memory of that fight on the way back flashes up in my mind and some of that must have shown on my face, for Katie reaches out to rub my arm comfortingly.

"Splendid!" decrees Tatty, sounding satisfied. "Do stand your ground!"

"I met poor Fiona the other day by chance," remarks Katie. "She's thrilled that Vera and Hilda are currently banned to the social naughty step. She was getting sick of the way Vera dominated her entire wedding preparation and Steve wasn't much help."

Leaning her head closer to mine, Tatty mutters conspiratorially, "Steve's as harmless as a teddy bear, but also has the all perceptiveness you'd expect from a stuffed animal."

She seems pleased when that draws a laugh from me. It aligns with my impression of Steve Broderick as well.

Katie turns to look into the hall. "Shall we go back downstairs?"

"Sure." I nod.

"Can't have Ken develop a tic from the fidgeting," agrees Tatty.

Indeed we cannot. I mean, just _imagine_ the headlines!

As we leave the room and start making our way back to the staircase, I turn to Tatty. "Can you tell me the plans for this weekend?"

Ken said not to worry and that it would be very different from the party at the Brodericks, but I'm still a bit apprehensive.

"Sure," agrees Tatty. "There's lunch next and in the afternoon, we'd normally go partridge shooting, but Ken told us you could get in trouble for that at home, so we'll just make it a nice walk on the grounds."

"You don't have to change your plans just because of me," I hurry to tell her.

"No-one wants you to get in trouble with anyone," assures Katie.

Tatty nods. "And those partridges are not going anywhere. We can always shoot them next weekend."

Yeah. Somehow, I don't think I'll be telling that to Carl.

"After the walk, it's tea time, then dinner, drinks and bed," Tatty continues. "Tomorrow, we do breakfast and a nice birthday lunch. During the interval, daddy has been known to break out the board games or else, we might take another walk. After lunch, everyone departs, which leaves Ken with enough time to make it to Windsor for dinner with his parents."

And me with enough time for Hanson to drive me to Oxford, where Lucy, Dev and Josh have promised to introduce me to the supposedly unique experience that is an English pub quiz.

"We better stick with the board games. It's supposed to rain tomorrow," supplies Katie.

Alas, Tatty is unimpressed. "A few lively showers have never hurt anyone."

I'm not so sure about that, but I have more pressing concerns than the prospect of rain.

"What dress code do you have in place for dinner?" I ask cautiously as we begin our descent down the grand staircase. "I'm not sure whether the dress I have packed is suitable." (Again, Ken assured it was perfectly fine, but I'm not likely to trust _his_ assessment, am I?)

"Don't worry, please," soothes Katie. "We're among friends here and besides, the times when everyone dressed up in tiaras for dinner are long gone."

"Still, if you'd like, we could go through some of the crates in the attic after tea," offers Tatty. "They're full of old evening gowns from between the wars. They belonged to my grandmother. She used to be a dish back in the day."

The idea of me dressed in a probably priceless dress from decades ago is so ridiculous that I can't help but laugh. "I couldn't possibly wear them!"

"Why not?" asks Tatty, looking unperturbed. "We made sure to keep them well-preserved, so you don't have to worry about the material being too fragile. Mummy and I are too big-boned to wear them, but you're slender. They should fit you. There's a sumptuous cobalt blue number that would bring out all the different reds in your hair."

"She's not your dress-up doll, Tat," Katie interjects mildly.

But my mind is already picturing a slinky 1930s style dress in a bright blue and honestly, it's too good to pass up. Not for nothing, it would also go extremely well with the new pair of silver heels I bought with my first pay and which I brought in a desperate hope that they might be able to update the nice but unexciting navy dress I originally planned to wear.

Tatty scrutinises my face and my thoughts must have shown there, for she nods, looking decidedly pleased herself. "We have a plan then."

Yes. It looks like we do.

"Make sure you also throw in a pair of wellies and a Barbour coat," adds Katie practically. "Otherwise, your lively showers might yet end up giving her a nasty cold."

"No problem," agrees Tatty easily. "We have some for guests down in the boot room."

(They have a _boot room_?)

We've reached a heavy-looking set of double doors by now, which Tatty throws open without any fanfare. Inside, the walls are lined with enough books to make half my family weep with joy, leaving no doubt that this is, indeed, the library.

A fire crackles away in a large fireplace, in front of which Ken stands talking to two other men. When they hear us enter, all three look up and Ken immediately holds out a hand for me to take. I do him the favour of walking over and squeezing it briefly, but then let go to introduce myself to the others. I appreciate the concern, but I feel no need to hide behind him.

The Earl of Feversham and Prince Christopher of Hereford – or Rolly and Chris, as they have me call them – could not look less alike. Rolly appears to be as old as the dresses his daughter offered me and I'm sure that if I were to look up 'English country gentleman' in a dictionary, there'd be a picture of him, all ancient tweed jacket and garish printed tie. Chris, on the other hand, is so impeccably dressed that he looks like he walked out of a vogue spread inspired by _Brideshead Revisited_. It doesn't hurt that he's good-looking and knows it, nor that he's in prime age to be featured in such a spread. (Age-wise, I'm fairly sure I read somewhere that Ken fits nicely in the middle of the two older Hereford children.)

Different though they are in appearance, both Rolly and Chris greet me kindly, with Chris thanking me for keeping his unruly cousin in check (a quick look confirms Ken to be rolling his eyes at this) and Rolly recruiting me to his Pictionary team despite my protests that I'm really no good at it. He claims it's all about quick thinking and not much about artistic skills, which I'm not convinced of but don't argue anyway.

The ensuing board game discussion (Tatty advocates Monopoly over Pictionary and her father is having none if it) is only broken up some minutes later by the appearance of Genie who calls us for lunch. As we follow the other over into the dining room, I feel Ken reaching for my hand again and this time, I don't pull mine away, instead interlacing my fingers with his.

"So, how are you doing… in one word?" he asks, his voice quiet but hopeful.

I take a moment to think that over, replaying the past half an hour in my mind, before raising my head to smile at him. " _Good_."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Leningrad' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:  
No, no, no! No apologising! Just the opposite, in fact. It was a lovely review and as always, much appreciated! :)  
_ _Yes, George was probably already on a plane when Rilla and Ken had their argument. I like to thing Ken having orchestrated his arrival long before that fight makes the gesture a bit more powerful, even. He didn't do it to try and get Rilla to forgive him or anything, he genuinely did it because he realised she was missing a lot of her old life in Oxford and George was the only part of that life he could actually get to her. And as for George enjoying England... well, he_ was _named for a British king... ;)_  
 _I think Ken had 24 hours to reflect on what Rilla said and reflect on how this entire weekend went and after he calmed down and didn't feel so cornered, he was able to look at it with more impartial eyes. He might have talked to someone else about it as well, but mostly he just cooled down and thought it through and realised that Rilla had a point. Personally, I think if he_ hadn't _figured it out in 24 hours, Rilla might as well have hopped on the next plane because then, there clearly would have been no sense in trying anymore.  
I promise we're moving towards Rilla meeting his family (or parts of his family). We've got the two cousins already, so we might count that as the first little step, yes? ;) And I am, in fact, currently working on the chapter that has the next big meeting, so not too long anymore. The Leslie Reveal will happen slower, but we will get there too, in time. _To everything there is a season _and all that ;).  
_

 _To JoAnna:  
Absolutely no argument there! In fact, I agree with everything you say, only you express it very clearly and succinctly in a few sentences and I need this big, overlong story to say the same thing. Such are the tribulations of a writer, I guess ;).  
But to be serious, you're definitely very right about everything you said.I think, to me, Rilla lets her temper and her prejudices get the better of her and that makes her act in a not-so-good way, but it's more of a short-term thing. Ken gets it wrong on a longer-term, more substantial scale and that makes his reaction worse, on balance. They're both right and they're both wrong. It was important for me to show that. I won't argue that Ken gets it more wrong though because he does.  
In the end, _what we've got here, is a failure to communicate. _Like you said, these are issues they should have resolved long ago by talking openly and frankly, except they didn't and now that's coming back to bite them. Ken has been hiding in their parallel world and Rilla just went with it (let's face it, Rilla tends to just rolls with whatever is happening around her)m but they've arrived at a point where that strategy isn't working anymore, so it's up to them to find a new way forward or call it a day. If this is supposed to be for keeps, they definitely need to start building something permanent in the real world.  
_


	48. Now old friends are acting strange

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
December 2012_

 **Now old friends are acting strange**

"No!" exclaims Izzie forcefully and plants a hand firmly on the open book, preventing me from turning the pages.

"But it says here that if we want to go visit Timmy the Timid Hedgehog, we need to turn to page 72," I point out, tapping my finger on the relevant line.

Izzie pouts. "No."

"So you don't want to visit Timmy? Shall we go looking for Liza the Lazy Porcupine instead?" I suggest. "If so, we need to go to page 31."

"No!" Izzie shakes her head forcefully.

"But darling…" I sigh helplessly. I cast a quick glance around the living room, but although my entire family plus assorted Merediths are gathered around us, they're all locked in conversation. It looks like I'm on my own.

"Read here," demands Izzie and points to the page immediately after the one I just read to her.

A quick glance tells me that while the previous page had us conferring with John the Jovial Wildebeest about what Timmy the Timid Hedgehog might know about the stolen chocolate cake, the following page catapults us right into the middle of a boat ride with Chip the Chipper Dolphin.

"That's not how it works, sweetie," I explain weakly. "We don't just read from the beginning. You get to _choose_ how you want the story to continue. Isn't that fun?"

Apparently, it isn't, for Izzie throws me a very exasperated look, takes the book from my hands and stomps off without another word, presumably in search of someone who isn't thrown into mental dizziness by her way of reading it. Looking after her, I lean back in my armchair and can't help feeling a little grateful for her departure.

"I already tried explaining it to her. No luck," states Jake and comes to perch on the armrest of the couch next to me.

"You loved those _Choose Your Own Adventure_ -stories," I remark, feeling a little wistful. "Used to drive me crazy with your insistence on going through them very _methodically_ so you wouldn't miss even one possible ending."

"I was just being thorough," replies Jake with a shrug and a tilt of his chin.

I smile at him. "Weren't you just? You made me write lists of every path already taken. I was not allowed to stop reading until you had found your way to ever single ending."

"It pushed back bedtime," explains Jake, attempting to appear nonchalant but looking far too pleased with himself to succeed.

For a moment, I stare at him, open-mouthed. "You did that deliberately? Why, you little…"

Jake is openly grinning now. "I also really wanted to know every ending," he amends. "But you were easy to convince when it came to holding off bedtime. Mum never let me stay up as late as you did."

I groan. "Let's never tell her, alright?"

"Scout's honour!" promises Jake impishly.

Reaching out, I try to ruffle his hair in retaliation, but he quickly ducks out of the way.

"You're looking entirely too much like the cat that got the cream," I grumble.

Jake laughs, but waits until I have withdrawn my hand before he sits back down on the armrest, his legs swinging lightly back and forth. "How is King George?" he asks. "Does he like England?"

"He lords over it with the self-assuredness of his late namesake," I assure him. "Stalks the streets, hisses at the reporters, demands cuddles from neighbours and befriends the girl cats. In short, he's his usual self."

"Good," states Jakes simply.

"He's also charmed our immediate neighbours. Lovely elderly couple who strongly support the royal family. It's convenient because they're looking after him while I'm here and Ken's up in Scotland," I continue. I don't want Jake to think I deserted George so soon after he orchestrated his return to me.

Jakes gives me a thumb's up to show his approval.

"Did I ever thank you properly for getting him back to me?" I ask pensively.

He nods. "You did. On the phone. Several times. It was embarrassing."

The pillow I throw at him sails right over his head and he grins at me.

"Well," I continue, trying to maintain decorum in light of the misaimed pillow. "I am very grateful you did it."

"Good," repeats Jake.

He considers me for several seconds, before slipping down from the armrest. "Tell Ken I don't see any reason to call him anytime soon but I still have his number," he adds.

His expression is earnest, his posture straight. He's obviously trying to appear grown up and I feel a little tug as I realise that as the next few years go by, we will see less and less of the little boy who tried to beat the _Choose Your Own Adventure_ -stories. Not that I don't have full faith in the young man he'll grow up to be, but…

"I'll tell him," I promise. "I know he's grateful to know he can rely on your help."

A smile lights up Jake's face as he takes two steps towards me gives me the briefest of hugs. I don't even have time to return it before he bounces backwards again, looking slightly embarrassed at this unplanned show of affection (hugs from Jake have become a rare commodity) and takes off towards the kitchen.

I look after him, but out of the corner of my eye, see Joy coming up to stand beside me. "When did he start growing up, Joy-Joy?" I ask without turning my head.

My sister sighs. "I know. Isn't it awful?"

"Yes, it is," I agree with my own sigh.

But of course, neither of us means it.

Turning to look at her, I see Joy shake her head, as if trying to clear it from whatever thought filled it before. "The King's Speech is on in a few minutes." She indicates the TV on the other side of the room. "Do you want to watch or make a strategic escape?"

"If I watch, I'll just have everyone bug me about when I finally get to meet the King and Queen," I point out, grimacing. "I'll pass. According to Ken, it's a boring speech this year anyway."

Joy nods, but I can positively see her mind whirring as she tried to come up with a way to ask the question I obviously don't want to be asked without actually saying the words.

I let her stew for a few moments before delivering her from her dilemma. "The answer is 'soon'. I'm meeting his siblings next month and we're looking into finding a date his parents can do afterwards. They aren't Mr and Mrs Doe. They don't just pop over for Sunday dinner when it pleases them."

"True," concedes Joy. She looks like the might say something more, but given that this is _exactly_ the kind of interrogation I'm actively trying to avoid, I get up from the armchair before she has a chance to.

"Anyway, I guess this is my cue to go and hide. Enjoy the speech!" Giving her my most innocent smile, I slip past her and out into the hall.

It's quiet here, which is a relief after the hustle and bustle of the living room. I lean against the wall, close my eyes and revel in the silence for a moment, hoping that I might have managed to slip away undetected – when I hear the sound of a door opening.

"Don't you want to watch your _prince_ walk to church for the umpteenth year in a row?" asks Carl.

Wearily, I open my eyes to look at him. "Thanks, I'm good here."

He closes the door behind himself and takes position on the other side of the hall, hands stuffed in his pockets and a frown edged between his brows.

I study him for several seconds, but when he doesn't offer up anything else, just remains _standing_ there, my patience grows thin. "If you have a problem, spit it out. Otherwise, go glower somewhere else."

"I'm not glowering," argues Carl, clearly on the verge of becoming defensive.

Deciding not to dignify that with an answer, I merely raise an eyebrow and wait. He's been getting on my nerves for ages now, so either he finally starts talking or he can leave me alone.

"I don't have a problem," he asserts, even though his entire stance contradicts his words.

"Yes, you do!" I snap. "You've been acting weird ever since you learned about me dating Ken. Considering that was over a year ago, it's a long time to be acting weird!"

Carl folds his arms across his chest and glowers some more.

"I assure you he neither eats kittens for breakfast, nor does he delight in drowning puppies in his free time," I continue. "Look, if you were to give him a chance, you two might end up getting along!"

(Knowing both of them, I don't think the likelihood of that happening very high, but then, you never know, right? Besides, I'm making a point here.)

"I don't think so," replies Carl, echoing my thoughts. (Not that I'd ever admit it.) "I will never be friends with someone who –"

" _Hunts_?" I interrupt, my voice rising. "Jesus, Carl! Give me some credit here. I know perfectly well that you only get so hung up on the hunting because you don't want to say what's truly eating away at you."

"Hunting is a serious issue!" Carl persists.

I roll my eyes at him. "As is the issue of how the meat industry stables their livestock before slaughter. And yet, despite almost all of us eating that very meat, you're still talking to us. Therefore, your problem with Ken isn't that he sometimes shoots a bird out of the sky!"

Emotions play over his face and I know for a fact that he wants nothing more than to contradict me and can't. I'm right and we both know it. Whatever his issue with Ken is, it runs much deeper than the question of grouse shooting.

Watching Carl through slightly narrowed eyes, I wait for an answer, but none is forthcoming. Instead, the front door opens to reveal a tightly swaddled Shirley, his arms laden with fir branches that Nan insists belong over the windows for extra festive cheer. (We drew straws to determine who had to go out and get them. Shirley got the short one.)

Dropping the branches on the floor, he looks from me to Carl and back again. "Am I interrupting something?" he enquires, raising both eyebrows. "You look ready to claw each other's eyes out."

"Oh, you know. Carl was just divulging what kind of problem he has with my boyfriend," I tell him, my tone hitting just the right balance between airy and cutting.

Carl scoffs.

Shirley gives us both another look, before shrugging and starting to unwind his scarf. "Well, don't mind me."

I don't really expect Carl to say anything, especially not with Shirley present, so I'm quite surprised when he does choose to speak. "He's _changing_ you."

What on earth…?

Looking over to where Shirley is hanging up his jacket, I can see that his eyebrows are back up in his hairline. At least I'm not the only one who didn't expect that.

"What makes you say so?" I ask Carl.

"You're different from how you used to be," he states stubbornly, even though that's really just the same thing rephrased in another way.

"Different how?" I want to know.

Unfolding his arms, Carl waves them around in a haphazard fashion. Shirley quickly ducks sideways before he gets hit in the face.

"He's turning you into some kind of… _trophy wife_!" The way Carl says it, it sounds like an insult. "He wants you to look good and take care of your appearance and otherwise shut up."

Over by the door, Shirley drops his boots to the floor. When he notices me looking at him, he raises his shoulders in a shrug. No help to be had from him, it seems.

"I _always_ took care of my appearance, Carl," I point out carefully. After all, I'm the girl who used sharpie for eyeliner, wore pinching shoes on her feet without complaint and spent her entire allowance on cute clothes that generally didn't last more than a season. The only thing that has truly changed since then is that I have somewhat better taste now!

"It's not the same," insists Carl.

It's the ultimate passive-aggressive answer and the more petulant part of me wants to respond in kind. I swallow the words when I notice Shirley shaking his head at me in warning. He's right, my little brother is, much as I loath to admit it. Once I start snapping, this will all go downhill fast.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I organise my thoughts so that when I look at Carl again, I know what I want to say. "He's never told me to shut up over anything. He's never criticised my appearance. I don't know what you imagine our relationship is like, but I assure you it's much more… _normal_ than most people would expect. As a couple, I bet we aren't fundamentally different from you and Kara. There's him and me and everything else is just… circumstance."

Carl doesn't look convinced. Even Shirley has now given up every pretence of _not_ listening, instead studying me with interest. The fir branches lie forgotten by his feet.

"Okay, how's this?" I try. "If a trophy girlfriend was what he was after, it would have been nonsensical to choose me. I have no impressive ancestry nor any connections to speak of and I definitely don't speak _Toff_. He could have had his pick from among several pretty, well-bred, titled English girls who all would have fit the bill much better than I do."

"Then why not chose one of them?" asks Carl. "Why is he dating you?"

Geez.

He's no more beating around the bush than he did when we were children, is he? Looks like the years brought age, but no restraint. (Nor wisdom, I wager.)

"Maybe because he loves me?" I suggest, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "Maybe he really doesn't have any ulterior motives?"

"I find that hard to believe," Carl counters. (Behind him, Shirley rolls his eyes in a way he knows will amuse me and I appreciate the effort, even if I don't feel much like laughing right now.)

"Seeing how adamant you are that there needs to be ulterior motive when it comes to dating me, I'd love to know what _yours_ was." I've arrived at full-blown sarcasm now and don't feel much inclination to try and hide it.

At least my words serve to visibly confuse Carl. "It wasn't like that," he claims. "We dated because…"

He breaks off and I can't blame him. I wouldn't voluntarily wade into that particular mess either. The answer, if there is any, is a complicated combination of genuine fondness, childhood friendship, familial pressure and plain old availability.

Shirley, much more aware of the nuances of social relationships that people usually give him credit for, does a rather bad job at concealing his amusement. I glare at him for good measure, but with little success.

When Carl doesn't say anything else, I pick up the thread he dropped. "If it's not like _that_ , why is it so hard to believe that he could love me for me?"

Carl shrugs, raising both shoulders to just below his ears. "It's him I don't trust."

And that's the heart of the matter.

"If you talked to him, you might find he is not so bad," I repeat my earlier offer.

It is not received rapturously, but when I look at Carl closely, I have a feeling he's not _as_ opposed to the idea anymore. Still, he was never going to agree just like that. "I don't know what we could possibly talk about. He hunts, he has more houses than anyone needs, he takes private jets and helicopters…"

He isn't _wrong_ , of course. Thinking about it like this, I _did_ make quite the U-turn between my first boyfriend and my current one. Their similarities, if there even are any, are negligible. (Shirley, judging from his thoughtful expression, has probably arrived at the same conclusion.)

Still, if we can't work with similarities, differences work almost as well.

"So talk to him about that," I suggest, shrugging. "Maybe not the hunting, but the rest of it. Tell him your arguments."

That succeeds in striking Carl mute for once. Gaping at me, he struggles for word several times, before finally managing, "Really?"

"Sure." I wave my hand airily. "Just chat with him next time he's around. Maybe then we can all get along and you can go back to normal. You were much more fun to be around before you knew about Ken and me."

"I'm not promising anything!" Carl clarifies quickly. (Shirley rolls his eyes heavenwards, looking almost as exasperated at this as I feel.)

"Fine with me," I reply, not having it in me to go through it all again. "But since we've agreed on that, I suggest you now make yourself scarce and go bug someone else. Otherwise, I might find myself forced to have you thrown into The Tower after all."

"You can't do that!" exclaims Carl (though his expression seems just the tiniest bit uncertain).

I shrug in the most nonchalant manner I can manage. "Do you _really_ want to find out?"

"Friends in high places," Shirley reminds him jovially as he steps over the fir branches to stand closer to us.

Carl looks from me to Shirley and back again. "Better not risk it," he decided and for the first time today, I see an amused glint in his eyes.

Shirley slaps his back. "Good choice. Now bugger off before Bloody Mary over here changes her mind."

"I resent that," I remark mildly.

The two boys just exchange a grin, before Carl moves to gather the fir branches. "I'm leaving," he announces.

"Before she goes for your head?" Shirley asks slyly. I raise a fist to box his arm, but he looks unbothered.

"Or burns me on a stake," adds Carl.

(Did they really still burn people in… _when_ did Queen Mary reign again?)

"Well, shoo then." I make an accompanying motion with my hands. "Don't test my patience."

Carl gives a mock bow, which surprisingly he manages without dropping a fir branch. Walking backwards, he exits through the living room door that Shirley is helpfully holding open for him. I roll my eyes at the both of them.

With the door firmly closed, Shirley turns back towards me. "Does your boyfriend know that you just damned him to very long discussions about all kinds of green issues?" The thought seems to amuse him.

I shrug. "I'm sure he's had worse in his field of work. Besides, if he loves me enough, he'll put up with it for my sake."

"And if he doesn't love you enough?" teases my brother.

"He does," I assert blithely.

Shirley inclines his head. "Fair enough."

"I'd love to know what _his_ problem is though." I point at the closed door with my thumb, indicating Carl. "He reminded me of Jake with his irrational loathing of Ken, except that even Jake has come around by now."

"He would, wouldn't he?" replies Shirley in a way that implies I'm missing the obvious. "Jake is trying to protect you as you are. Carl is trying to keep his childhood friend from changing. They have different goals."

"It's nonsense though!" I exclaim. "I haven't changed that much! Nice clothes and pretty hairstyles is something that predates Ken by _years_!"

"Uh-huh." Shirley nods. "But frilly dresses notwithstanding, no girl was ever as unbothered by all his reptiles and insects as you were. Except for Faith and Una, I guess, who had no choice but to get used to it. You were always ready to go on those nature excursions of his, too. I should know. You always forbade me from coming along."

I quickly search his face, but he seems quite relaxed, so I just shrug. "And yet, you survived."

"So I did," confirms Shirley. "So will Carl. He just has to get used to the fact that people change and move on."

Briefly, I think of Cecilia and her version of 'change and move on' and maybe therein lies the root of the issue. Faith and Jerry seem to have learned to cope with the way their mother left them, but both Carl and Una still obviously struggle with it to this day. (It also makes me wonder whether Carl and Ken might not have _one_ thing in common after all.)

"I didn't change," I tell Shirley. Then, after a second of hesitation, " _Did_ I?"

Shirley considers me thoughtfully. "Truthfully? Yeah, you did. Could just be the normal process of growing up though."

"How?" I want to know, feeling more than a little surprised at his admission.

"You're more controlled. Less likely to get into scrapes. You actually think of the consequences of your actions, which was not something often observed when we were younger." He pauses, as if to think something over. "It also means you're less spontaneous. Not as light as before. I think that's what Carl meant when he talked about Ken changing you."

"I haven't noticed myself changing," I reply slowly.

"Do we ever?" asks Shirley, shrugging. "But really, just look at how you handled Carl just there. Three years ago, you would have scratched his eyes out for being so petulant. Or this morning, how you made sure the photographers got a good shot of you walking to church so they could pack up and go celebrate Christmas as well."

And here I was, thinking I had done it so niftily.

"Noticed that, did you?" I mutter.

"It's what I do. I notice things," he points out plainly.

At this, I can only nod. Being quiet means Shirley never misses much.

"I also noticed that you're not the only one who adapted because of the relationship you're in," he continues. "Carl also went from wanting to save that single injured Blue Jay to wanting to save the entire avian population."

"Why is that, what do you think?" I wonder. "Because of that Kara?"

(Whom, I might add, no-one has met yet, despite her being a part of Carl's life for as long as Ken has been a part of mine.)

"From what Carl said, I gather that her ideas are wider-ranging than his," Shirley explains carefully. "I imagine when he expects you to stop the entire Royal Family from hunting, that's really her expecting him to make it happen."

Interesting.

"You've become quite good friends, you and Carl," I observe.

"Three years between us were enough for the two of you to shut me out back when we were kids, but they don't make such a difference now. Besides, we both know a thing or two about how it feels not to fulfil the expectations your older siblings met." He says it without bitterness, very matter-of-factly, but it's a rare personal admission coming from Shirley. So much so that it immediately makes me listen more closely.

"What do you mean by not fulfilling expectations?" I ask cautiously.

"What I said. I'm not really excelling at life the way the rest of you are. Neither is Carl." Again with the matter-of-fact tone. "I know you also count yourself among those not reaching expectations, but look at you – getting a graduate degree from Oxford!"

I want to explain to him that I didn't get into Oxford on academic merit and detail to him that without Lucy and Josh and Dev stepping in when they did, I might as well have dropped out in November. I do neither.

Instead, I point out, "You're getting a degree from Georgia State. That's nothing to sneer at either!"

Shirley grimaces, but doesn't say a word.

"Shirl?" I ask, watching him closely through narrowed eyes.

He breaks off eye contact, looks to the side. "I'm not actually doing that anymore."

I blink, confused. "Studying?"

"Yes. Studying," he confirms.

"But…" I grapple for words. "Why? When? How?"

"Just before the holidays," answers Shirley.

When he doesn't volunteer anything else, I nudge his arm and frown at him. He sighs.

"I thought about dropping out before," he admits. "I just didn't feel like I was learning all that many useful things. I had no real reason to leave though, so I stayed."

"Until?" I prompt.

He sighs again. "They did a drug bust up during the last week of classes. Turned the entire dorm inside out. I don't know whether someone had given them a tip or whether they just figured it was a good idea."

"Shirley…" There's an ungood feeling rising within me.

"They also went through mine and Timmy's room. Found some of Timmy's pot in his wardrobe and dragged him off to do a drug test," he adds. "They're threatening him with expulsion."

I groan softly. "Please tell me they didn't find any drugs on you."

"Worried what the papers might write?" Shirley asks, raising a single eyebrow.

Yes, I _am_!

"I'm worried what they might do to _you_!" I clarify, struggling to keep my voice low. "They'll tear you apart and then they'll put you back together just so they can tear you apart again. They can be vicious. And you getting expelled from college for doing drugs _is_ a story. They'll be all over it."

"Just because of who you're dating," Shirley replies quietly. "I didn't choose this."

"No," I admit. "But it'll still happen."

He shakes his head. "It won't. The pot was Timmy's and when they tried to do a drug test on me, I read them my rights until they eventually backed off. I didn't get expelled and any drug use I might or might not have done isn't proven."

'Might or might not have'? Yeah, _right_.

"If you didn't get expelled…" I leave the question hanging.

"I dropped out," he answers simply. "I saw them ride roughshod over Timmy and asked myself what I was even doing, studying at a university run by people like that."

That's madness, of course. To drop out of university for something like that.

And yet, in its principled-ness, it's also a very Shirley thing to do. Never say Joy and Di were the only ones who got the justice gene.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask, watching him closely.

Surprisingly, his face lights up at that. "I have investors for my app! Do you remember the university search engine I was working on two years ago? I got talking about it with some guys back at SXSW during spring break and they were really interested. They have some great ideas, too. At first, we just want to roll it out as a search engine, but ideally, we will get the universities on board in the future and use it to simplify the application process as well as helping students to get the best possible funding. It would save so much time _and_ money!"

Well… I guess it would?

Also, what on earth is that SX thingy?

Shirley is looking at me expectantly and, rather belatedly, I realise that I'm not reacting in the way he'd want me to. Rearranging my face into a smile, I reach out to give him a brief hug. "That sounds great, Shirl. I'm proud of you!"

I am, too. I am also slightly befuddled by it all, but that doesn't mean I'm not proud.

Instead of returning my smile, however, Shirley is back to grimacing. "I just wish Mum and Dad saw it that way. They'll be disappointed that I dropped out of college."

"Perhaps. Very probably, even," I admit. "But the nice thing about our parents is that they've turned 'being supportive' into quite an art form. They'll get over it. They'll _make_ themselves get over it."

"Let's hope so," sighs Shirley.

I give him an encouraging nudge. "I'm sure of it. Just maybe don't mention the drug bust as the catalyst of your decision?"

That draws a smile from him. "Yeah, that wouldn't be a clever thing to do."

"Not clever at all," I confirm. "Apart from that, you really should talk to them though. And if you do and it gets hard, never forget that I have wilfully brought myself into cahoots with the most archaic, conservative family on this planet. If you want to top that, you need to do more than smoke some pot and drop out of college. At least with the pot thing, I don't think they can be pointing fingers anyway."

"You're right. You're still the bigger disappointment," he concedes with a lopsided grin and ducks away when I aim to box his upper arm.

My attempt at retaliation is cut short anyway, because Walter choses that very moment to stick his head out into the hall. "Come in, you two! Nan and Jerry have an announcement to make."

Walter's head disappears again and I exchange a meaningful look with Shirley.

"Baby?" he asks, raising both eyebrows.

I shake my head, a smile creeping to my lips. "No. _Wedding_!"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Both Sides, Now' (written by Joni Mitchell, released by her in 1969)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _You most certainly did :)._  
 _I'm glad you think they both took a step forward in the last chapter, because that's how I intended it. You're utterly right in saying that it's still quite a way towards a rock stable relationship (and an equal one as well, because we'll definitely be tackling the question of equality at a later point), but it was a step in the right direction. He was more attentive, she was more open-minded and the result was much more successful.  
Ultimately, he needs to be more mindful of her needs (problem is that he perceives her as being stronger than she sometimes is, so he tends to ask too much of her) and she needs to be more mindful of her own needs as well and start taking her life into her hands. She really has little agency (because she doesn't take more for herself) and that's not good or healthy in the long run. Right now, she and Ken aren't hiding anymore, but they're still partly caught in their own little world, so for now, it works, but they won't always get to stay in their cosy little corner and things will be progressively more difficult the more public they are. But they'll get there, as we will get to Leslie - eventually ;)._

 _To Mammu:_  
 _I think Ken actually cares about George himself by now, but even if he didn't, he knows that Rilla worries, especially so shortly after having gotten George back. He respects that and I dare say he probably also finds it a bit endearing. A little amusing, too, but in a nice way ;)._  
 _No, Saunders is one of the PPOs I fall back on when I think poor Hanson needs a break once in a while. Can't have the man working 24/7, can we? And if I send him and Beckett home, I have Saunders and Beaverstock (the new guy) and the unfortunately named Butcher to draft in. They all five combine to ensure that Sex Eyeore stays in his Norfolk retreat with preciously little to do but to grumble about the weather. Which is as it should be, as far as Rilla and I am concerned._  
 _Ah, Rilla, too, thought we didn't like Tatty. But I like Tatty and so shall you ;). And Rilla needs her around, so she better like her as well. Tatty knows those circles inside out and she is sensitive about things that Ken doesn't think to prepare Rilla for (because he's a man). It'll help tremendously to have a girl friend on the inside who knows how things work and can make sure that engagement party never repeats itself. Of course, we're counting on Ken for that, too, but sometimes, it needs a woman's touch._


	49. Gone to the finest school all right

_Oxford, England  
January 2013_

 **Gone to the finest school all right**

Absent-mindedly drumming my pencil against the open page of my textbook, I frown at a particular recalcitrant sentence.

… _characterises the mechanisms at the core of class relations as pertaining to the domination of the exploited classes, putting focus on the ethical implications…_

A brightly-wrapped candy tumbles into my field of view, coming to rest on the open page and mercifully covering part of the sentence I was trying to read.

"Hello Dev," I greet without moving my eyes from the text.

"Hard at work?" he asks brightly.

Reaching out to unwrap the candy, I look up at him. "Hardly working," I retort, raising an eyebrow at him lounging casually in the seat opposite me.

Dev waves an unconcerned hand in the air. "I'm too hungry to work."

"Aren't you always?" I tease.

I am rewarded for my impertinence by Dev throwing another candy at me. His aim, however, is so bad it sails right past me and plummets to the floor somewhere to the left of my chair.

I look pointedly behind me, then I turn back to Dev with a smirk. "You were saying?"

He pouts and pops another candy into his mouth, chewing defiantly, but his eyes are laughing, belying his attempt at appearing offended. Being a chronic optimist, he's hard to offend anyway.

"When's dinner?" I enquire, making sure to sound amiable.

Dev looks at his watch. "It's quarter to seven, so Informal Hall is still ongoing. Formal Hall begins in half an hour. Are you coming?"

"Uh-huh." I nod. "Ken is, too."

Whistling softly, Dev slides me another candy over the table. "The future King himself."

"The very same." I smile.

With Dev's encouragement, I've participated much more in college life since November, making use of the gyms, library, common room and bar, as well as taking the occasional meal at Oriel and generally interacting much more with other students. Josh is at Nuffield College and Lucy at Somerville, but since Dev is a fellow Orielense, he declared himself my personal guide and he's done well fulfilling his promise. However, even as I'm spending more time in Oriel's hallowed halls, Ken's much busier schedule rarely allows him to accompany me. Thus, Dev's reaction to Ken being at Formal Hall tonight is understandable.

"Your prince isn't here yet though, is he?" Dev casts a look around the library, as if he expects Ken to suddenly jump out from behind a bookcase.

Laughing, I shake my head. "No, he's away on some royal business. Hugging little old ladies, kissing babies, that kind of thing. I'm meeting him in the dining hall later. I just need to get changed first."

While Informal Hall is a buffet-style dinner that doesn't come with a dress code, Formal Hall is a sit-down meal with clear dressing requirements. Most colleges only do this a few times per term, but Oriel prides itself on having Formal Hall every day except Saturday. It's faintly ridiculous and yet endearingly dorky in the way so many of these old Oxford traditions are. I don't really attend very often, preferring to grab lunch or an informal dinner when I'm here anyway, but this is the first Sunday of Hilary Term, so it seemed like a nice idea to attend.

Dev unwraps another piece of candy for himself. "Can I offer use of my room?"

"Hmm, tempting," I reply. The thought of having to get changed into my dress and gown in a washroom stall isn't altogether appealing.

"Let's go then!" Dev is already on his feet. "Being in the library too long makes me feel guilty."

"Try studying," I suggest with a laugh, causing him to pull a funny face. I know he's just acting up for comedic benefit though. He might pretend not to care, but in reality, he's both clever and diligent about keeping on top of his studies.

I rise from my chair and stuff my book and notebook in my bag while Dev collects the candy wrappers, balling them up in his fist with a rustling sound. Watching me shrug on my coat and sling my bag over my left shoulder, he does a funny little bow before offering his arm and leading me out of the library.

I don't really need to come here to study, as I can and _do_ simply check out most books I need. I've come to realise though that I do better work when in a library than lounging on the sofa at home. Could be that surroundings are more, well, stimulating or that there is simply not much else to do but read whatever you planned on reading, but since taking myself to a library for studies regularly, either alone or with others, I've been making much better progress.

If I can, I prefer to go to Oriel's Senior Library, which looks exactly how a library ought to look, according to my mother. With its tall windows, ornate furniture, red carpet and marble columns, it's a perfectly romantic place to be and its ceiling-high bookcases hold thousands of old books bound in distinguished-looking leather. It's not the Bodleian, which is in a league quite of its own, but it'll most definitely do.

Today though, I have to do with the Junior Library, which is the one Dev and I are currently exiting, as it's the only library Oriel opens on weekends. It isn't as pretty as the Senior Library, furnished in veneered oak and favouring colourful new textbooks over the leather-bound collection of its senior equivalent. Still, with the study room that is part of the MCR – Middle Common Room, that is – occupied this afternoon, it provided a quiet space to do some reading, so I was willing to overlook its lack of romanticism for the day.

When Dev and I leave the library building and enter Oriel's third quad, I instinctively raise my shoulders and tug my nose beneath the collar of my coat.

"Are you cold?" asks Dev in wonder. "Shouldn't you be used to much worse, being a Canadian?"

"Yes," I concede, my voice muffled. "But this is _damp_ and that's much worse."

Truly, while I'm used to a drier, more biting cold, the dampness of Britain is something I still haven't resigned myself to. It creeps right into your bones in the most uncomfortable way and can only be alleviated by a nice long bath. (I really should take a nice long bath tonight, I think.)

"Let's take the tunnel then," suggest Dev. "Can't have you feeling cold!" He doesn't give me a chance to reply, instead steering me over to the entrance of the tunnel that connects Oriel's Main Site with what they're calling the 'Island site' on the other side of Oriel Street.

"Do you have your Bod Card at hand?" Dev asks as we stop at the entrance to the tunnel.

The personalised Bod Card is ostensibly the library card given to everyone at Oxford, but it also functions as a cashless pay system and a kind of electronic key as well as being a way to identify yourself as an Oxford student. It is only handed out after the student in question takes a pledge not to set the Bodleian on fire nor _to mark, deface, or injure_ any books in its possession, which, let's be honest, is nothing anyone needed to make me pledge. After all, it has been impressed upon me from a young age that the abuse of a book – _any_ book – counts as the very worst form of blasphemy. My mother has strong ideas on the issue.

I fish my Bod Card out of my coat pocket and hand it to Dev, who uses it to open the door in front of us.

Far from being mysterious, the tunnel is disappointingly mundane. From the inside, it just looks like any windowless corridor, enough so that not even Walter or Nan would be able to create a convincing ghost story around its existence. It's too short for anything exciting to happen in it, too, and we don't take long to reach its other end.

Oriel's Island Site is very different in looks from the Main Site. Whereas the latter has grand medieval halls grouped around three open quads, the former is made up of a random collection of small and differently coloured houses that were haphazardly crammed into narrow lanes and paths. It feels much more like some kind of dense living quarter from bygone centuries than an Oxford college. Its definitely unique to Oxford, too, and big part of Oriel's charm, if you ask me.

The Island Site also houses a good deal of Oriel students, including a handful of graduates, including Dev.

"This way, please." With an exaggerated hand motion, he ushers me past the green building that holds the MCR, which is the common space for graduate students to meet, relax and unwind. It's also the place where we hold movie nights and board game evenings and, on Sundays after Formal Hall, a thing called 'second desserts' that involves cheese and cake and, yes, decent amounts of booze.

Once we're past the MCR building, Dev points toward a narrow grey-ish house to our left. "Here we are."

"I've been here before," I remind him with a smile and an eye roll. After all, we had a board game night with Lucy and Josh before the holidays that turned surprisingly competitive. (I won at Risk, which seemed to amuse the others quite a bit.)

Dev shushes me before throwing a suspicious look over his left shoulder. "Not out here! Anyone could hear you. They might think we're having an _affair_." The last word is spoken in a conspiratorial whisper.

"If that's what you're afraid of, shouldn't you have thought about it _before_ inviting me to your room so I could get out of the clothes I'm wearing?" I ask, barely able to suppress my laughter, as I pass through the door he's holding open for me.

Dev stops, frowning. "You have a point there," he concedes slowly, letting the door fall shut behind us.

"Absolutely, I do," I inform him brightly. Taking my Bod Card out of his unresisting hand and shoving it back into my pocket, I tug him towards the staircase and up to the second floor.

"Your key, if you will," I demand once we've reached his room.

Dev awkwardly steps from one foot to the other, looking genuinely concerned all of a sudden. It's an unusual look for him.

"But what if someone…" he begins. "What if the press…"

Somewhere along the corridor, a door is thrown shut and poor Dev physically flinches.

Feeling myself soften, I reach out to pat his shoulder. "People already saw us cross the quad with linked arms and I bet someone also saw us enter this building together. If the press wants to spin it, they've got plenty to work with already. They've certainly created stories out of much less."

"So you're saying…" Again, he breaks off before finishing the sentence.

"Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb," I finish with a shrug. "Seriously, if I lived my life according to what the press might write about me, I'd go clean mad."

It's something Ken's been trying to tell me for a while, but I've only recently started to adopt it as my own policy. I've got no idea how long this equilibrium will persist or what kind of slanderous story it might take to break it, but for now, it feels liberating just to stop _caring_ for once.

Studying me for a moment, Dev finally mirrors my shrug. "Well, if you say so." His voice is considerably brighter now and he's rummaging through his pockets for what I assume is his key.

Instead, he produces a collection of candy wrappers, a half-crumbled cookie and a battered-looking package of mints, all of which he unceremoniously stuffs into my outstretched hands, before finally locating the key and holding it aloft in triumph. "Here we are!" he announces.

(Behind him, a girl passes by and throws us a strange look. I make a point to ignore her.)

After Dev has unlocked the door, he waves me inside. His bedroom looks pretty much like all other student bedrooms in Oxford and presumably all over the world. (It certainly looks depressingly similar to NYU's halls of residence.) For all its grand buildings and romantic libraries, Oxford is incredibly pragmatic when it comes to the accommodation of its students, kitting out the rooms in sturdy, unappealing, mass produced furniture that will never, under any circumstances, be pretty.

Clearing his throat, Dev points me to a door to my right. "Bathroom," he explains. "It's reasonably clean, but I would still like to point out that I did not expect a female visitor today. I refuse to be held accountable for anything you might encounter in there."

"Always be prepared, Dev," I advise with a grin. "Always be prepared."

The bathroom does, in fact, turn out to be reasonably clean, not to mention much roomier than a public restroom stall would have been. Dropping my bag to the floor, I quickly rummage through it and retrieve a pair of pantyhose and a dark green calf-length dress.

It's a little fancier than what I'd usual wear, even for Formal Hall, but today is Sunday and the usual dress code of 'jacket and tie' gets bumped up to 'suit' on Sundays and Wednesdays, adding a little bit of exta fanciness. (Though I maintain that it's most inconvenient and vaguely sexist how often dress codes only give the male side, leaving us women to figure it out for ourselves. Thank God for the internet, is all I can say!)

Changing clothes quickly, I twist my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and critically survey my makeup in the mirror. Deciding that it has held up sufficently well through the day, I only touch it up minimally. Thus, I'm out of the room in less than ten minutes, carrying my gown in front of me with an outstretched arm.

The Gown is prerequisite Oxford wear whenever anything of note happens. It's designed slightly differently depending on your status, but the student version is usually a black, sleeveless, waistcoat-type of thing, except that it doesn't close at the front and has flaps of cloth hanging uselessly around, in my case down to the knees. It's impossible to find a dress length that works well with it and while the calf-length one is decent, I'd much rather just _not_ wear The Gown at all. Alas, it's mandatory for Formal Hall, so there's no way around it.

Dev has used the opportunity to get changed into a suit and is just shrugging into his own gown.

"Very distinguished," I tease and he performs a mock bow.

"Where are you meeting… uh, your date?" he asks once he's straightened again, clearly stumbling over how to correctly address Ken.

I suppress a smile at his choice of words. "Dining Hall."

"Well, then…" Dev nods towards the door. "Better not leave him waiting."

"We don't want him to turn into a pumpkin at midnight," I agree, pleased when it makes Dev laugh.

And thus, we stroll back down the stairs, through the tunnel, over the third, second and first quad, to finally reach the dining hall. It's an ornate, wood-panelled room with an elaborate wooden ceiling, stained glass windows and several portraits of old white men looking down at the diners below. (Seriously, the sheer amount of portraits of old white men at this university is enough to turn _any_ thinking woman into a feminist!)

I spy Ken below one of the portraits close to the entrance,. (That is a _very_ nice suit on him, I must say.) He sees me in the same moment and a smile spreads over his face.

"I'll join you in a minute," I tell Dev, before walking over to join Ken, my smile mirroring his own.

"How was the thing?" I ask, meaning whatever royal engagement he undertook this afternoon. I don't really keep track of them, to be honest.

Ken reaches out to clasp both my hands in his. "Good, good."

"Kissed some babies?" I ask, raising my eyebrows comically.

"And hugged some little old ladies," he adds with a grin.

"Most excellent!" I declare grandly.

He laughs. "So it is. Though in graver news, I dropped by at home to change clothes and found George in a state of most grievous distress."

"Pretended he was a starving cat, did he?" I ask knowingly.

"Utterly deprived of food," confirms Ken. He's trying to keep his expression serious, but I can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I shake my head at my cat's antics, but find myself smiling as well. "I fed him before I left, which was… not even four hours ago."

"Plenty of time to starve," Ken points out. (Rightfully too, or at least George would say so.) "What did you leave him for anyway, poor, neglected cat that he is?"

"Hardly," I scoff. "I didn't purposefully _neglect_ him anyway, I was just at the library studying. Getting some reading done for the Social Stratification course."

Ken's lips twitch upwards, but he's clearly fighting to keep his face under control. He's entirely too amused by me taking Social Stratification as an elective, if you ask me.

I glare at him for good measure, but to little effect. "Yes," I inform him haughtily. "I read a very interesting chapter on neo-Marxism. It raised some remarkable points on the exploitation of, well, the exploited classes."

"Did it indeed?" asks Ken, his eyes dancing with mirth.

"Uh-huh." I nod. "Very thought-provoking."

He's grinning now, unable to keep his face straight any longer. "I bet it was, my little Rosa Luxemburg."

Huh?

I don't get to ask though, because he leans down to press a short kiss to my lips. Around us, I can hear people starting to whisper, but make a point not to react to it. Let them think what they want.

Speaking of which…

"By the way," I tell Ken once we've parted, "I got changed in Dev's room just now, so if there are stories about me having an affair in tomorrow's papers, that'll be the reason."

"Duly noted," he replies snappily, raising his hand in a salute.

I roll my eyes at him and am just about to drag him to where Dev sits with some other students, when I suddenly notice his expression change. Instead of teasing, it is now thoughtful, with the shadow of a frown apparent on his face.

"Since you mentioned tomorrow's papers…" He hesitates. "You might want to give Shirley a call later tonight."

"So they found out about… the thing?" I ask, sighing softly.

Ken nods. "The _Daily Mirror_ has it. Arlene managed to get her hands on an advance copy."

I hardly dare ask, but I must know. "Is it _very_ bad?"

"Not _very_ bad, no," Ken replies. "Libel laws being what they are, even the _Mirror_ knows better than to accuse Shirley of any criminal activities without definite proof. But there are enough hints and insinuations to get the point across."

I twist my mouth into a grimace. "There's nothing we can do?"

"Nothing." Ken shakes his head regretfully. "Arlene made some calls, but as long as the article is factual on the surface, we have no leverage. The best thing he can do is lie low and wait for it to pass."

He shouldn't have any trouble with the 'lying low' part of it, but still. I hate this. It's like that mess with Joy all over again, where my siblings' lives get dragged through the press just because most of those so-called journalists have no qualms about who they hurt in their attempt to damage me. It's all so… disgusting.

"At least he already told Mum and Dad," I remark with another sigh.

"How did that go?" Ken enquires.

"We-ell," I draw out the word. "From what Shirley said, they made _very_ sure to be supportive of his choice to leave college, even if, objectively, it must have baffled them. As for the possibility of him smoking pot, that didn't feature much into the discussion at all. Figures, really. I mean, they grew up in the freaking 60s, so it's not like anyone can cast stones here!"

"Not particularly, no," agrees Ken.

Tugging my hands from his clasp, I rub them over my face, my mind already trying to come up with something I can say to Shirley later on. Suffice to say, it's all blank.

"Miss Blythe?" asks a new voice.

Lowering my hands, I half-turn and find myself facing Prof Schmitt. My first instinct is to take a step back, but I just about manage to suppress it. Moments later, I can feel Ken's hand on the small of my back, warm and reassuring.

"Prof Schmitt," I greet with a short nod. For split second, I consider introducing Ken, but usually that just makes things even more awkward and anyway, I'd like for this conversation to be as short as possible.

Luckily, Prof Schmitt doesn't beat around the bush either. "I had a look at your last assignment the other day."

I feel myself stiffen, but bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I'm _not_ going to ask him how I did, no matter how important this assignment is. I'm _not_ going to sink that low. (Ken's hand has started drawing small circles on my back and I'm suddenly eternally grateful for his presence.)

Prof Schmitt isn't voluntarily disclosing the information either.

"Dr Gecko said you're taking his Advanced Quantitative Methods course this term?" he asks, his expression almost… thoughtful.

"I am, Sir," I confirm stiffly.

Considering how I struggled with statistics early in the first term, it sounds crazy for me to now be taking the advanced course, but the truth is that once I actually applied myself to it, I found that Lucy wasn't wrong. It's a lot of maths and logics and in part, it's not so different from what I did back at NYU. Now, I'm not pretending to suddenly be a statistic whiz kid, but given my utter lack of pre-knowledge about the actual sociology issues, advanced statistics seemed like a reasonable bet, given the options.

Of course, I don't expect Prof Schmitt to get any of that.

"I know there are other students who did better in that assignment," I point out instead, as if me saying it first could somehow take the sting out of the words.

Prof Schmitt inclines his head into what is not quite a nod. "Even so," he begins slowly, "I respect anyone who puts in the work to succeed."

Um…

Does he mean _me_?

(Ken's hand squeezes my waist encouragingly.)

An agonizingly long moment passes, before Prof Schmitt's thoughtful expression turns into one of decisiveness. "Come see me later this term and we can talk about your thesis."

With that and a short nod, he turns and makes his way over to the High Table where the fellow usually gather. I stare after him, temporarily struck mute.

"Well, well, well," I hear Ken's soft voice behind me. "Would you look at that?"

"I don't even know what _that_ was," I state, feeling more than a little confused, and turn to look at him.

Ken is smiling. "Looks like you won him over."

I shake my head. "I can't see _why_. I had a good feeling about that assignment, but I _know_ others did better. Josh for sure, probably Lucy as well. And Ginny, too, annoyingly enough."

"He just told you," Ken remarks gently. "You didn't start out as well as you could have, but you put in the work and you got better. He respects that."

"You mean I didn't turn out to be a spoiled little brat that expected preferential treatment?" I ask, raising both eyebrows questioningly.

"Or that," concedes Ken with a lopsided smile.

Well. Would you look at that?

I shake my head in wonder.

"Do you want to go see him over the thesis?" Ken enquires as his arm settles around my waist and he nudges me into a walk, over to where Dev is sitting with some other graduate students.

 _Do_ I want to?

"Truth to be told…" I hesitate, letting me gaze travel to the High Table where Prof Schmitt is talking to Dr Gecko. "Truth to be told, I've got no idea yet. Maybe not, but, you know…"

I break off, but Ken understands anyway. "It feels good to have him offer?" he suggests.

I nod slowly. "It does feel good. _Very_ good, even."

It feels like… like another piece of the puzzle is finally falling into place and really, who would have thought that a short two months ago?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Like a Rolling Stone' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1965)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _I'm glad you like my Shirley! He's a favourite for me as well :). I see him as someone who gets underestimated and reduced to "oh, he's a computer nerd", when in fact, his character is much more nuanced. He's good with his computer, but he's also a good observer of people and often sees things not everyone does. He's also plain spoken, so a useful character for me to have around ;)._  
 _Sorry for neglecting the family recently. It's a bit of a line to walk, getting them into the story without moving the focus away from Rilla and getting myself all tangled up in too many concurrent plots. I'll promise to always keep checking in with them and I've got proper plots planned for most of them. And in the meantime, we're about to meet_ another _family very soon..._

 _To Mammu:  
Oh, Carl _is _annoying. For himself, he's got a reason for acting like he does (with his mother leaving the family at a young age, he doesn't do well with what he feels is people abandoning him), but that doesn't mean his behaviour isn't irritating for others. I think Rilla brought her point across though, so hopefully, that'll result in some thinking and maybe he'll make more of an effort next time.  
As for Shirley, the press will naturally be all over that drug story, even if objectively, they've got nothing on him. I don't even think Shirley himself minds so much, but it's awkward for Anne and Gilbert in their professions to have people instigating that their children do drugs. In Shirley's computer nerd world, I don't think it'll ruffle many feathers ;).  
As for Ken and his siblings... do look out for them next week!  
_


	50. Won't you give me a smile?

_Oxford, England  
January 2013_

 **Won't you give me a smile?**

There's a soft knock and moments later, the bathroom door swings open to reveal Ken.

"How are you feeling?" he asks and leans against the doorframe.

I stretch, causing water to slosh against the sides of the tub. "A little better."

He comes over to sit on the wooden frame surrounding the bathtub. "We can postpone," he offers. "I'm sure they'd understand."

At this, I snort in a decidedly unladylike way. As if I'd allow that!

"That's sweet of you, but it'd need something much worse than a visit from Aunt Flo to get me to postpone this," I inform Ken. " _At least_ some kind of fatal illness."

"They'll be flattered to hear that only you being on your deathbed could prevent you from meeting them," Ken remarks with a smile.

"Well, I waited long enough!" I defend myself, feeling a little indignant. "In fact, if I were to drown right now, I assure you I'd still find a way to be there. You'd just have to live with the visuals."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd make a lovely watery corpse," Ken assures me, his mouth twitching in amusement.

Raising a wet hand, I lightly slap his knee, leaving a foamy patch on his trouser leg. "So I would," I tell him haughtily.

"You'd also be dripping all over the floor," he amends thoughtfully.

I slap his knee again, then a third time, for good measure.

Ken catches my hand in his, interlacing our fingers. "Asking for forgiveness, my lady _robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right_ ," he declares grandly.

Again, I can't help a snort. "For one, I am not robed in _anything_ –" I briefly raise a leg out of the soapy water to emphasise my point "– and for another, quoting Tennyson might win you points with my mother, but will lead you nowhere with me."

"But it's _The Lady of Shallot_ ," he argues, grinning now. "It's romantic!"

"It is insipid," I inform him disdainfully. "Besides, do you want to know how much I care for its portrayal of women?"

"Not at all?" Ken guesses, still visibly amused.

"Not at all," I confirm with a firm nod. I might have grown up having Tennyson quoted at me regularly, but I still maintain that the way he wrote that poor lady is nothing short of chauvinistic. Just like a man, really.

Getting to his feet, Ken reaches out to take my bathrobe from its hook near the door and holds it open for me. "It being decidedly not snowy white, what are the odds of my interesting you in wearing this particular robe?" he asks teasingly.

A quick look at my phone lying on the side of the bathtub confirms that it is indeed time for me to get dressed for dinner. Making a point to sigh wearily, I climb from the tub, allowing Ken to wrap the bathrobe around me.

(It really isn't snowy white. In fact, it's a bright shocking pink, which is mostly because a bathrobe is about the only garment I can wear in that colour. My hair is dark enough to forgive soft, muted pinks without clashing, but bright pink is not a colour I could ever wear out of doors.)

Ken carefully ties the fluffy belt around my waist, then arranges the collar to sit flat over my shoulders. Finally, after surveying his handiwork with satisfaction, he bends down to give me a kiss.

"I'll pop over to the store while you get dressed," he tells me. "We appear to be out of chocolate sauce for the dessert."

"Are we?" I ask, feigning innocence.

He grins. "Indeed we are, though I distinctly remember that we weren't last night. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Must have been gremlins," I assure him in all seriousness. (In fact, I had a late night snack of ice cream and chocolate sauce yesterday while skyping with Jake and Izzie, but I'm not likely to admit that, am I?)

"Pesky fellows," agrees Ken, meaning the imaginary gremlins.

"Very sneaky," I add, nodding my head up and down.

Ken laughs, tugging at my belt to draw me closer for another kiss. "I'd better hurry to rectify the gremlins insolence. I'll be back before they arrive."

The 'they' in this case not being gremlins, of course.

As I watch him cross the bathroom, my gaze falls on an empty cardboard box sitting by the sink. "Ken!" I call out quickly and he stops on the doorway, looking at me questioningly.

"Pick up some of these for me, will you?" I ask, holding up the box for him to see.

He actually winces. "They will photograph me!" he protests. "They will photograph me, they will print it in a paper somewhere and everyone will laugh at me!"

I cluck my tongue at him. "Nonsense. Everyone will think you very manly and chivalric for getting hygene products for your girlfriend without kicking up a fuss by behaving like a pre-pubertal boy."

A moment passes, as Ken considers me suspiciously. "Very manly and chivalric, you say?"

"Like _bold Sir Lancelot_ ," I assert with a firm nod.

"Well, in _that_ case…" He draws out the words, but I can see the amused glint in his eyes, telling me he's just putting on a show. (Mostly.)

"Absolutely. Now, shoo! Begone!" I use both hands to wave him away. He obliges with a mock bow, but I can still hearing his laughter long after he has left the room.

Smiling to myself, I pull the bathrobe tighter around me and cross over into our bedroom. Ken has already pulled the curtains shut, which is a precaution we usually undertake. The press gaggle has generally stopped camping on our doorstep 24/7, instead only appearing when something specific drives them here, but there's no need to tempt fate on this one.

Passing by the bed, I reach out a hand and lovingly brush it over a sleeping George, who is fully stretched out and covers more of the duvet than a cat his size has any right to. Feeling my touch, George flicks an irritated ear and partly opens one eye to give me a disdainful look.

"Sorry Georgie," I apologise brightly, not meaning it at all.

George glowers some more for good measure, before flipping around so that he's now lying on his back, belly up and paws stretched overhead. (The foolish part of me would like to sit next to him to stroke his belly or squish his paws, but I just restrain myself. Rationally, I know that this is a deceptive peace and that he is ready to pounce any moment.)

"Sweet dreams," I wish George instead, not that he deigns to react at all. Typical cat.

Turning to the wardrobe, I cast a critical eye over my clothes. Ken said to dress casually and this time, I'm inclined to believe him. This is an occasion and setting where being overdressed is likely to be more awkward than being too casual.

After a moment of deliberation – and with George being no help at all – I settle on a soft ivory pullover and a new pair of black jeans that I got when I went shopping with Tatty and Katie last week. It's a classic combination that'll look nice without being too dressy. Or at least that's what I hope.

Having dressed, I retreat back into the bathroom (though not without very quickly squeezing the left front paw of a very annoyed George, pulling my hand back quickly before he can retaliate). My hair is all wet and tangled from the bath, so it takes a bit of force to pull the brush through it. I do, finally, get it to lie halfway orderly over my shoulders and am reaching for the hairdryer when the doorbell rings.

Hand still outstretched, I freeze, starring wide-eyed at my reflection. Because while the cliché would dictate for me to presume that this is Ken simply forgetting his key, the cliché does not take into account the PPOs, who hold several keys to the house between them. Even _if_ Ken had forgotten his, they'd be more than prepared to help out.

I know this isn't Ken. Instead, it's our guests come early.

So much for 'I'll be back before they arrive'.

Taking a deep breath, I pull back my hand. There's no time to dry my hair now, nor to fashion it into anything resembling a hairstyle. I'm left with no option but to brush it back over my shoulders and tuck the front strands behind my ears. At least my make-up didn't wash off during the bath. The eyeliner is a bit smudged, but I suppose it'll do. It _has_ to.

As I cross through the bedroom, I absent-mindedly notice that the bed is deserted, with no George to be seen. I wasn't nervous before but now I feel a sudden desire to go join him in whatever hiding place he's relocated to. Not that I will, of course. I've waited too long for this to finally happen to let anything get in the way of it, even nerves. (Or, you know, death by drowning.)

I give myself a little pep talk while walking down the stairs but all too soon I reach the front door. I can't really say the pep talk has helped, to be honest.

Still.

Squaring my shoulders, I open the door.

And there they are.

My first thought, irrationally, is that they look very normal. It's a stupid thought to have, because Ken looks normal as well and he's as royal as they are, maybe even more so in the grand scheme of things. And yet, somehow, their normalness strikes me.

Despite being his siblings, they don't look a lot like Ken. Where he got his father's dark colouring, they are both blond, like the Queen. Teddy is almost as tall as his brother, but lankier, as if he still needs to grow into his limbs. Persis is short, with the kind of stocky, sturdy build that results when someone otherwise predisposed towards chubbiness is keeping very fit and active.

They're also clearly both as tongue-tied as I am and for several long moments, we just stand there and stare at each other. It's only when a gust of cold air blasts past me into the house that I am shaken awake and remember my manners. Sort of. (Just as well that Grandmother Marilla can't see me right now.)

"Hello." I clear my throat. "Ken's still out, but he should be back soon. You can come in, of course."

They don't do that though. Instead, I watch with some curiosity as Persis turns to Teddy and hisses, "We're early. I told you we'd be early."

Teddy raises both hands in defence. "Better than late," he mutters back.

Persis narrows her eyes at him.

Thing is, I'm pretty sure they _are_ early. I can hardly leave them standing here on the doorstep though. If nothing else, the spirit of Grandmother Marilla might come and scold me for it.

"Look. It's fine," I speak up, causing them both to look at me. "You can come in. It's no problem." To back it up, I take a step back and invite them inside with a motion of my hand.

Both remain standing as if rooted to the spot.

"You aren't, uh… ready," point out Teddy, nodding at my still-wet hair.

Instinctively, I reach up to touch a wet strand that has snaked over my shoulder. "It's fine," I repeat. In an effort to emphasise my words, I grab a stray hair tie from the side table next to the door (Ken is always teasing me about leaving them lying around everywhere) and twist my hair back into the semblance of a bun. "There. All set," I announce.

It does seem to convince them that they don't have to wait on the doorstep until the agreed on time has arrived, since they both finally duck past me into the house. Teddy murmurs a thanks as he passes. (It's just as well. I was getting cold in my pullover and the wet hair wasn't helping.)

As I close the door, I spot two unfamiliar looking men standing next to Beaverstock by the gate. Their stance identifies them as PPOs, no matter the civilian clothing, and I suddenly realise that of course Persis and Teddy, too, come with their own security detail attached. Not so normal after all.

"This way." I wave my guest over into what was fancifully called the drawing room by the estate agents but is really just a living room as any other. (Except for the moulding. And the fancy fireplace. And the chandelier.)

"Please have a seat," I invite, pointing at the two couches and only then do they sit down, sharing one and leaving me with the other.

Cue more uncomfortable silence.

"So, um…" I begin, frantically trying to think of something to say and coming up with nothing.

Luckily, Teddy seems to have decided to help me out. "This is a nice place." He gestures at the room around us, then lightly and not-so-subtly elbows Persis into action as well.

"Very cosy," she agrees quickly, glancing at me for a second before looking away again. (Really. Only someone who grew up in a palace would regard this house as cosy.)

"It's Victorian, I think?" My statement comes out as more of a question.

"Either Victorian or Edwardian," replies Teddy thoughtfully. "The lighter colour of the façade and the relative restrained ornamentation has me leaning towards Edwardian."

I just nod silently, both because I have no knowledge of these matters and because it suddenly strikes me that the Victorian _and_ the Edwardian era were named for ancestors of the two people sitting on my couch. (Strange that I rarely ever think about it where Ken is concerned but can hardly shake the thought with his siblings.)

Not that an answer is required of me, because Persis takes that moment to poke a finger into her brother's upper arm and hiss, "She isn't interested in that, Teddy."

"No, no," I quickly reassure. "It's fine. I mean, it's interesting. I just don't know much about architecture. Anything, really."

Teddy smiles a lop-sided smile that immediately increases his resemblance to Ken. "Most people don't. It can be fascinating though."

"To you," murmurs Persis, without looking at anyone. Teddy shrugs as if to say that he can't help it.

Another silence looms and I desperately try of something to say when I hear the front door being opened. "That's Ken," I announce unnecessarily and spring to my feet. Louder, I call out, "We're in here!"

Ken shows no surprise at seeing his siblings already installed on our couch and for a moment that surprises _me_ , but then I realise that their security people must have tipped him off as to their presence.

"Look who's early," he remarks and though his voice is jovial, I can see Persis turning to glare at Teddy.

"Better early than late," I hear myself stating brightly, though quite why I feel the need, I can't say.

"Very true," agrees Ken and gives me a smile.

Both Teddy and Persis have risen to accept hugs from Ken and, in Persis's case, a kiss to the top of her head. Though if I thought that Ken's arrival would make them relax, I was clearly mistaken. Instead, they're both watching him with something that is not discomfort or apprehension but… well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say they're somewhat in _awe_ of him.

But that's stupid, right?

I mean, he's their _brother_. Sure, he's quite a few years older than them (even _I_ have a few months on Teddy and almost two years on Persis), but still. Joy and Jem are older than I am as well and I haven't been in awe of them since… well, I'm pretty sure I've _never_ been in awe of them, period.

"Shall we relocate so I can finish preparing dinner?" asks Ken, motioning towards the living room.

He lets his siblings pass, but lays a hand on my arm to stop me. Handing me an opaque bag, he asks quietly, "Are you feeling alright?"

I nod, smile. "Yes. The bath helped."

"I didn't mean –" he begins.

I shake my head to interrupt him. "I know you didn't." I briefly brush my free hand along his arm and observe his expression settle into calmness as he realises that yes, I'm actually alright.

Reaching into the bag, I hold out the chocolate sauce for him to take, then follow his siblings into the dining area, dropping the bag on a chair as I pass. When I reach them, I find them both turned in our direction. Persis looks down when I meet her gaze, but Teddy smiles a half-smile and inclines his head into the tiniest of nods.

Ken's hand lightly touches my back, propelling me forward. "Sit down, everyone. I'll just put the finishing touches to the first course."

We do as instructed, Persis and Teddy taking the seats opposite me at the dining table. Behind them, I can see myself, mirrored in the darkened windows. My hair is far too messy for my liking and I quickly look away. Somewhere to my right, Ken is clattering around with the pots, before holding up the remote control of his stereo. Moments later, Janis Joplin's voice quietly fills the air.

"So…" I look from Teddy to Persis and back again. "You're graduating from college this year, aren't you?"

Teddy nods. "We both are. I took a four-year degree in Scotland, while Persis's course is a normal English three-year BA. She's all caught up to me now."

He gives her a smile that his half-fondness and half-teasing and she narrows her eyes at him.

"Mum said you're considering a graduate degree, Ted?" Ken calls over from the kitchen area.

"Yes," Teddy calls back. To me, he explains, "Edinburgh offers a Master's degree in Advanced Sustainable Design that I'm interested in."

"Advanced Sustainable Design," I repeat slowly. These are mighty grand words, but I have no idea what could be hiding behind them.

Apparently, my cluelessness is obvious, because Teddy clarifies, "It's about sustainable development. Basically, how to design and build green cities and towns in a realistic way."

"Sounds important," I remark, because, well, it _does_ sound important, even if I don't understand much of it. Quieter, more to myself, I add, "Carl would be all over that."

"Who's Carl?" asks Teddy curiously.

"A friend," I answer at the same time as Ken chimes in with "her ex-boyfriend".

I turn to glare at him, but he just grins and raises the ladle from the pot he's just placed on the table. "Soup?"

Rolling my eyes at him, I nevertheless allow him to fill my bowl with steaming and, admittedly, delicious smelling soup. He ladles out some for the others as well before sitting down next to me, briefly squeezing my knee below the table.

"Is Carl also an architect?" Teddy enquires and blows some air over his spoon. Persis, meanwhile, eyes the contents of her bowl with what appears to be suspicion.

"I'm not out to poison you, Pers," Ken remarks amusedly and, as if to prove the point, takes a big spoonful of soup. "And I'll swear to a God of your choosing that there's nothing in there you don't like."

A picky eater, is she?

Persis's eyes flit from Ken to me and back again, before she cautiously lowers her spoon into the bowl and takes a dainty sip.

She looks uncomfortable with all eyes focus on her, so I swivel back to answer Teddy's question. "Carl is no architect, he just cares a lot about the environment. I'm sure that if he had his way, we'd all live in caves somewhere, but even he realises that's hardly realistic. Sustainable development sounds like something he'd see as the next best thing."

"It _is_ the next best thing," Teddy replies thoughtfully. "Not many people care yet, but I think it will become increasingly important in the next decades."

"I'll take your word for it." I smile at him to show I'm sincere. "I really don't know anything about it. You might even be the first architect I've ever met, come to think of it. One of my sisters is a dab hand at decorating, but that's purely recreational and just interior-focused anyway. She actually helped with this house."

I raise my hands to indicate our surroundings and, out of the corner of my eye, cast a quick look at Ken who's been very quiet during our exchange. He seems quite content to just sip his soup and watch Teddy and me talk. It's only when he sees me looking at him that he gives me a reassuring smile and knocks his knee against mine beneath the table. (Over on the other side, Persis seems to have decreed the soup to be edible, seeing as she's quietly eating and listening.)

"It's very nice," Teddy praises the house. "I don't know much about interior design, but my unprofessional opinion is that your sister and whoever else worked on it did a great job."

It's such a carefully worded, professional answer, designed not to leave anyone feeling left out, that I have to hide a smile. It's a thing I've observed Ken doing countless of times and it appears that Teddy at least also has the skill.

"It was mostly Nan's doing, to be honest," I tell him. "She really has an eye for colours. She showed us some mood boards for her wedding while we skyped this morning and they looked super professional."

"It might be an alternative career path if she grows tired of four or five more years at university," suggests Ken to my right.

"Wedding planner? Or interior designer?" I ask, raising both eyebrows to comical heights. "She seems quite dedicated to psychologising kids for now, but I'll make sure to mention it to her if that should ever change."

Ken salutes me with his, thankfully empty, spoon. "Glad to be of service."

I know I should retort with something funny, if only so as not to leave him with the last word, but I can't think of anything. Luckily, it's Teddy to the rescue, "When is your sister's wedding?"

"Nan's wedding? In August," I reply. Then, aside to Ken, "You're invited, by the way. She sent out Save the Date cards as few days ago."

"Good." Ken's voice is very matter-of-fact, quite as if him attending my sister's wedding is no big deal and somehow, that pleases me more than it rightfully should.

"Is the wedding held in Canada?" enquires Teddy as he pushes his empty soup bowl away from him. (I can't imagine he cares all that much, but at least chatting about Nan's wedding gives us something to talk about.)

I nod. "Yes, in Halifax. It's where we grew up. Most of us have moved away by now – my younger brother recently took himself to California of all places! – but my parents still live there. The groom's family isn't that far away either."

"Just a quick five hour drive," Ken points out laconically and swat his arm in retaliation.

"In Canadian distances, that's not so far," I clarify. "Though I can understand why it would seem far to you."

"We on our tiny island, you mean," he adds, grinning, and if I hadn't already swatted him, I'd feel tempted to do so now.

Instead, I settle for a haughty look, but even that slips when Ken, laughing, reaches over to brush his fingertips along my face. Then, without preamble, he turns to his sister and asks, "Oh, hey, Persis, what did I hear about the Equestrian Championships potentially going to Canada in a few years?"

Persis hesitates, before raising her eyes to look at him. "Bromont," she volunteers. "In 2018."

(Am I supposed to know where _Bromont_ is?)

"That was it." Ken nods, satisfied, before adding, "How are the horses doing? Is Tommy still lame?"

Teddy leans a little closer to me over the table and explains quietly, "Tommy is one of Persis's horses. His tournament name is Cullinan."

I blink at him. How does one go from Cullinan to _Tommy_?

"He's better," Persis tells Ken, looking more animated than she has all evening. "I've started some light ground training with him and he's responding well to it."

"That's great news!" Ken's smile tells me that he truly means it, too.

I tilt my bowl to scrape the last bit of soup from it, when Teddy asks, "Do you ride, Rilla?"

"Me?" I can't help laughing. "I used to when I was younger, but that was years ago. I wasn't very good either. The only prize I ever won was for a _Best Kept Pony_ competition and, really, the prize should have gone to the pony for still standing still while I re-braided its mane for the eighth time."

"A truly well-behaved pony," comments Teddy with a smile.

"It had a lot of patience with me," I confirm, pulling a comical little grimace.

I move to turn to Ken, but my gaze halts when it falls on Persis, who suddenly looks very determined. Watching her with some curiosity, I see her taking a deep breath.

"If you want to try out riding again, I can take you," she offers, intoning her words carefully.

(She _is_ talking to me, isn't she?)

"I have one or two very gentle horses that you might like. We could take them out hacking if you want to, or work with them in the arena if you prefer that." Her voice is increasingly gaining speed as she talks. "Or if you'd just like to –"

"Persis," Ken interrupts her gently, exchanging a glance with Teddy.

She closes her mouth immediately, looking embarrassed. "Right," she murmurs. "I shouldn't assume."

I know that Ken intervened to prevent me from feeling pressured and that's considerate of him, but at the same time, Persis's offer was the first time she directly spoke with me at all this evening. And though the thought of getting on a horse after so many years is more than a little daunting, I'd be a fool to throw away this bonding opportunity just like that.

So, I smile reassuringly at Ken and briefly pat his arm, before turning back to Persis. "That's a lovely idea. I'd like that."

My reward is a hesitant smile and I know it was the right call.

Let's only hope I don't make a complete fool of myself.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'London Calling' (written_ _Joe Strummer and Mick Jones, released by The Clash in 1979_ _)._

* * *

 _To Rebecca:_  
 _I know you commented on chapter 1 and this is chapter 50 and I have no idea when (or if) you'll read this, but in case you_ do _, I just wanted to say thank you for leaving a review. I'm glad to know that you're enjoying this and I hope the rest of the story fulfilled what the first chapter promised :)._

 _To AnneShirley:  
I, too, love Dev, so that makes two of us ;). I don't have a friend like him (which, on second thought, seems like a grave oversight on my part), so it's very good to know that people like Dev exist for real in this world. Both for my story and for the world, of course! It would be a sadder place without Devs._

 _To JoAnna:  
I don't know if you've ever looked at the _RoyalCorrespondent _(an accompanying fanfic written expertly by OriginalMcFishie and Alinyaalethia), but they did have one or two articles about Rilla being caught in the rain at a train station a wile back. I imagine the press didn't have context for those pictures though (as in, they didn't know where she was coming from and why), so they couldn't spin it into more than "prince's girlfriend gets caught in a downpour while waiting for train". Even the press can't sniff out_ every _story, I think - though they certainly do try!  
As promised, the royal family has now been met (part of it, anyway). I'll even make you another promise and say that we'll meet another very important member pretty soon!_

 _To Mammu:_  
 _It_ was _a bit of a transitional chapter, no doubt about that. I had some loose threads I wanted to tie up before forging onwards into the next section of this story (for clarification: I am planning and writing this in sections and we're at the start of a new one), so I felt one more chapter was needed to bring the previous arc to a close. Also, I didn't really have time to focus on Oxford and all its quirky/crazy traditions before this chapter, so I thought it might be fun to do that. In the end, I put both those intentions together and the last chapter was the result ;)._  
 _I agree that it probably wasn't very wise of Rilla to go into Dev's room to change, but she can't always play by the reporter's rules without loosing a part of herself. I think it's a question of which fall she wants to take. They are always going to write_ something _about her, but at least made up stories about her and Dev are ridiculous enough that they can all laugh over them.  
I dare say Prof Schmitt was genuine in what he said to Rilla. I also dare say she won't write her thesis under his supervision. After all, Dr Gecko is both much nicer and has a far superior name!_


	51. That ice is slowly melting

_Windsor, England  
February 2013_

 **That ice is slowly melting**

Had I known quite _where_ Persis stables her horses, I might not have been so quick to say yes to accompanying her.

I went with her unsuspectingly, joining her on the backseat of a PPO-driven car as they picked me up in Oxford at midday. Apparently, she makes the journey down from her college in Hartpury every weekend and as Oxford is on her route anyway, she assured me that it wouldn't be a problem to collect me. Seeing as my last time using the English railway system didn't inspire an overwhelming desire to repeat the experience, I was only too happy to accept the offer.

I was blithely unaware where we were going for the majority of the one hour-drive, mostly concentrated on thinking up trifling things to chat about to a generally quiet Persis, until the driver rounded a corner and I realised with a jolt where I was.

Windsor.

The name itself, of course, is iconic, and the castle possibly even more so. Even now, with my back to it, it looms large behind me, a never to be forgotten presence. It's not _oppressive_ in the strictest sense of the word, but it's certainly very real in a way it wasn't before.

The only silver lining is that we turned right before reaching the castle itself, into what Persis termed "the Royal Mews". I'd take this to be royal speak for 'stable', except that the term doesn't really do it justice. It's not as grand as a castle (and certainly not as grand as _this_ castle), but… it's certainly something.

Where I know stables to be either purpose-built wooden blocks or housed in these big, almost hangar-like metal structures, these are brick and stone buildings and they are clearly old. They're ornate, too, in the way it doesn't make sense for stables, with added bits on the roofs and swirls on the side and gold-painted accents. There's an especially large building – possibly the riding school – that looks like its own medieval fortress and most of the courtyards (plural!) are framed by colonnades, some of which, inexplicably, have glass roofs. It's also spotlessly clean unlike any stable I've seen before.

It's mostly just the presence of the horses that identifies these as stables at all and it's only when I follow Persis into one of the buildings that the still-familiar smell of horse and hay creeps into my nose.

"These are the carriage horses," explains Persis as we enter, pointing at the row of boxes where a few white and brown heads have appeared. "We have Windsor Greys, though I suppose their official breed is Irish Draught. We've been breeding them since the 1800s,. The others are Cleveland Bays. They're both rare breeds, considered to be endangered now."

I nod, hoping it looks intelligent, and reach out to stroke a grey nose that hovers near my right shoulder. Looking up, I see curiously pricked ears and gentle dark eyes.

"That's Paul Temple, by the by. And this young lady here is Steve," introduces Persis, herself scratching the throat of a grey horse that closes its eyes in bliss and inclines its head for better access. "My father has a detective theme going for all the carriage horses. My mother gets to name the thoroughbreds we keep for horse racing and they all have operatic names."

Huh?

"Originally, the mews were meant to hold just the carriage horses, but with all our riding horses added in, it's becoming a bit of a tight fit," adds Persis from the other side of Steve's ( _Steve_ 's?) outstretched head.

"Do you have other stables?" I ask, mostly to keep her taking, and move my hand to rub 'my' horse's – Paul Temple's – forehead. He seems to like it, lowering his head slightly and letting the lower lip hang.

Persis nods briskly. "We have more carriage horses and a few riding horses at the mews at Buck House. And we're turning an older stable complex over in the Great Park into a proper training facility. I've got my two championship horses with me at Hartpury at the moment, but we're hoping to move them there when I graduate in the summer. That's also when my youngster will leave here, as will most of the other riding horses. Though I don't think we've decided about the polo ponies yet."

"Polo," I repeat slowly. "That's sportsball but with horses, correct?"

It's a pretty weak joke, but it still makes Persis smile. She's generally much more relaxed now that we're on her home turf. Back when she and Teddy visited us, I had pegged her as being simply not talkative, but it turns out she only needed the right subject. Horses seem to do the trick.

"Yes, it's a ball game played on horseback," she confirms. "My father, Ken and I play it. In fact…" She pauses, seeming to think something over. "In fact, let me show you something."

She gives Steve a parting pat on the nose and points me to another set of doors at the end of the stable. I farewell Paul Temple (whoever is Paul Temple?) and follow her to what turns out to be yet another courtyard. This one has box stalls leading out directly into the yard, with windows that allow the horses to look outside. Persis leads me straight towards one of them, knocking lightly on the stable door to gain the attention of its inhabitant.

Seconds later, a chestnut head manifests, ears moving alertly. The head is covered in a bright white blaze and I notice to my surprise that one eye appears to be brown and the other blue.

"This is Jack," introduces Persis. "Jack, say hello." She makes a small gesture with her hand and, on cue, the horse whinnies, proudly throwing his head upwards.

"Hello Jack," I greet him, smiling, and offer my hand for him to sniff at.

"He's Ken's," elaborates Persis. "Mostly, we share polo ponies, but Ken rides Jack exclusively in games. It's a bit mean, because he's the best polo pony we have. He really _gets_ it. I think he knows the rules better than most referees do."

Jack considers us with a bright, intelligent gaze. Having obviously deemed me trustworthy, he lowers his head slightly and starts nibbling at my hand. Persis produces a treat from her pocket and passes it to me. When I offer it to Jack, it's gone in the blink of an eye.

"He's a real charmer. His full name is Jack of Hearts," adds Persis, nodding at the sign next to the window. "Like the playing card, you know? Though I think Ken once said he got it from a song."

"Dylan," I reply with a smile.

Persis blinks at me. "Who?"

"Bob Dylan. He wrote a song called _Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts_ ," I explain.

A frown passes over Persis's face, before she shrugs it off. "Sure. That might be it." Obviously, her brother's interest in music didn't rub off on her.

Instead, she points me to the row of windows to Jack's left. "These are the other polo ponies. They're all called Ed."

They're… _what_?

Persis points at the different windows in turn. "We have Ed, Edwina, Edna, Eddy, Ed the Younger, Old Ed, Big Ed, Short Ed… oh, and that's Zuleikha there at the end. She was my first polo pony." She indicates a disgruntled-looking grey mare at the end of the row who's currently snapping at the light bay horse (Short Ed?) next to her.

I'm too flabbergasted by the collection of Eds to come up with an intelligent reply. Persis offers Jack another treat, which he devours as quickly as the first one, before moving along the boxes to his right. I hurry to follow her.

"This is Rusalka," she relates, stopping at a window two boxes over. "She's Mum's horse and the best dressage horse I've ever seen. When Mum rides her, it looks like they're not even touching ground."

Peering inside the window, I see a tall, slender horse with a coat so jet-black as it's rarely seen outside picture books and animated movies. She looks like the dream horse of twelve-year-olds the world over has suddenly manifested before us.

"She's beautiful," I comment, holding out a hand towards the mare. She, however, just eyes us for a moment before lowering her muzzle back into a pile of sweet-smelling hay.

"She is," agrees Persis. "She's the most sensitive horse imaginable though. We have a groom, Jill, whom she tolerates, but the only person who can really ride her is Mum."

She steps back from Rusalka's stable and motions for me to continue walking. "These here are my youngsters. I have my best horses, Tommy and Alix – or, really, Cullinan and The Sea King's Daughter – with me at Hartpury to train them. You aren't allowed more than two horses though, so my novices stay here."

We stop at another window. "Tomato!" Persis calls out and moments later, the head of a dark bay horse appears. It's not exactly the colour I'd expect of a horse named tomato, to be honest, and I just want to ask about it when my eye fall on the sign to the left of the horse's head. _Queen Mary_ , it says there.

So this is… a pun?

"And here, we have Lizzie," continues Persis, moving along to the next stable. I fully expect a sign introducing this horse – a light bay – as Queen Elizabeth or even the Virgin Queen or something, but instead, it says _Winter Queen_ and I'm confused again. I don't _think_ this was one of the many nicknames of Queen Bess, was it?

Not that I get a chance to ask though, because Persis leads me past a very tall chestnut gelding named _Longshanks_ according to the sign and Scotty according to his owner, and a dark grey horse named alternatively _Saint Edward_ or Blue, towards a bay one whose sign introduces him as _Charles I_.

"This is Roman," Persis tells me and honestly? I'm not even trying anymore.

"Hello Roman," I dutifully greet the horse and pat its neck.

"He's young, but very easy-going. He doesn't spook or bolt and he's generally very eager to please. Some horses test their riders, but Roman wouldn't dream of doing something like that. I thought he might be a good fit for you?" She hesitates, then suddenly looks uncomfortable. "Of course, I didn't mean to imply…" she adds, stuttering, before breaking off completely.

I laugh. "Easy-going and eager to please sounds like a great fit for me. I haven't sat on a horse in years and even then, I wasn't a very talented rider. I'm sure Roman and I will be great friends, won't we, boy?"

Roman nuzzles his nose against my hand, which I take for agreement.

Persis breathes a sigh of relief and offers a tentative smile. "Great. Shall we go and get you changed then?"

Not having ridden in years, I obviously don't own any riding breeches, but Persis promised to procure some for me. To this end, she leads me back into one of the stable buildings, past a pen holding two pinto Shetland ponies macabrely named _The Princes in the Tower_ and introduced to me by Persis as Pemby and Shrewie, and to a tack room. As we walk, we pass a few people that I take to be grooms, who all greet us politely but don't linger. (Though they _do_ look after us curiously, I can't help noticing.)

Having reached the tack room, Persis hands me a pair of navy breeches. "These are my Mum's. She's a bit taller than you, but they should fit you better than mine." With which words she pulls the door shut, leaving me behind in the tack room with the Queen's riding breeches, praying to whichever God will listen to please, please, _please_ not let them rip or unravel or otherwise be destroyed.

I pull them on without any damage being done, which makes me tentatively hopeful, though still objectively terrified at wearing something belonging to her Her Majesty. At least the riding boots turn out to be a spare pair of Persis's. It means they're a bit wide in the leg, but it's nothing an extra pair of woollen socks doesn't balance out.

Thus kitted out, I move on to getting Roman readied for riding as well, while Persis grooms and saddles up Lizzie-not-Elizabeth. Incredibly, I even remember most of the steps to groom a horse, though Persis has to assist with the tack. Once everything is in place, she passes me a riding helmet that I dearly hope doesn't also belong to her mother, before leading Lizzie, Roman and me towards the large medieval-looking building that does, indeed, turn out to be the riding school.

Persis is sitting atop Lizzie before I have even time to blink, but she mercifully points me to a podium-like structure that makes it much easier – or, maybe just plan _possible_ – for me to climb on Roman's back. Once up there, I shift in the saddle until I've found a position that feels mostly stable and gingerly pick up the reins.

"How does it feel?" asks Persis, riding circles around me.

How _does_ it feel?

"A little weird," I admit. "Not wholly unfamiliar though."

"They do say it's like riding a bike," Persis remarks thoughtfully, before moving Lizzie to Roman's side. "Do you want to try walking?"

I take a deep breath, then cautiously press my legs against Roman's sides. Obediently, he falls into a rhythmic, swaying walk. As we start riding laps around the arena, Persis keeps Lizzie by our side, much to the mare's displeasure, and gives me some carefully-worded advice that I'm only too grateful to take.

"So, do you like him?" she asks after a few minutes.

Daring to take my eyes off Roman's neck, I look over to her. She looks curious and hopeful and even a little… _anxious_? Almost as if… as if she's afraid I will tell her I don't like the horse she so graciously let me ride (if we even want to call it 'riding').

"He's lovely. And he has a lot of patience with me," I assure her, smiling to put her at ease. After a moment, she returns the smile and I can see her shoulders relax. (She wasn't _really_ afraid I'd say something unkind about her horse, was she?)

As it happens, I do like Roman and I absolutely think he's being very patient with me. I'm beginning to feel more at ease in the saddle, but I'm aware that I'm very certainly doing a dozen or more things utterly wrong.

"He is very patient," Persis confirms. "I put Teddy on him once last year and he was very good about it."

"Doesn't Teddy ride?" I ask, surprised. Given what she said earlier, I assumed the entire family does.

Persis shakes her head. "No. He can hold himself atop a horse, but he doesn't really enjoy it. He's…"

"More of an indoor type?" I suggest when she hesitates.

She considers that for a moment. "Yes, that's a good way to describe him."

Lizzie choses that moment to shake her head and attempt to jump sideways, but Persis brings her back under control with gentle but firm movements. She's really in her element around these horses.

I check on Roman, but he's still walking peacefully on loose reins, so I turn back to Persis. "And yet, despite him being an indoor type and you being an outdoor person, you two are very close, aren't you?"

She shrugs, then nods. "He's only fifteen months older. In many ways, we grew up more like twins than siblings. It's not that I love Ken less, but he wasn't around much. Teddy was always there, but Ken left for boarding school when I was just two. I don't remember a time when he really lived with us full-time, you know?"

Yes, I do know. I also know it's a sticky subject with Ken and one he dislikes having to talk about.

"He was always good about protecting us though. Ken, I mean. I think he thinks it's his job to look out for us." Pausing, Persis seems to ponder something, before adding, "That's why you and he work so well. He doesn't need to protect _you_. You're strong on your own."

Does she really think that?

Persis is still talking, looking down at Lizzie's mane and thus missing my utter befuddlement at her statement. "I sometimes think about how difficult it would have been for me to do what you did. Move here, start anew, with the entire press watching. I mean, the press likes you, but even so, I don't think I could have done it."

Still feeling far too confused to make sense of everything she's saying, I latch on to the one thing I know for a fact to be wrong. "Trust me, the press definitely does _not_ like me."

Persis looks up, seemingly surprised at my words. "Oh, but they do. Or at least, they haven't found anything to really dislike you for."

"They've found _plenty_ ," I mutter darkly, glaring down at the neck of an innocent Roman.

Persis, however, is still undeterred. "They don't have anything of substance. If they keep snarking about you being Canadian, which is not something you can exactly help, or about the way you eat your bacon roll, it just means there's nothing worse they can print."

Hm… I haven't looked at it from that angle yet, to be honest.

"Do you _think_ so?" I ask her, not yet convinced.

Persis shrugs, before looking back down at her hands that are absent-mindedly combing through Lizzie's mane. "I know. I know how nasty they can get if they truly want to be."

"Do you mean…?" I break off, unsure of how to respond.

"I'm not their idea of a princess," Persis states plainly, though still keeping her eyes averted. "You look the part, but I don't. Too short, too chubby. It was fine when I was younger, but by the time I was in sixth form, the press never truly let me forget it, nor did some of my classmates. I tried to… fit their image and it didn't work out well."

She swallows heavily and I am at a complete loss for words.

"I took a gap year to get better," Persis continues, her hand clenching in Lizzie's mane. "Ken wasn't allowed one and Teddy spent his travelling to see buildings he found interesting, but I just got better. It was Ken's idea that I should study equestrian sciences afterwards. Hartpury isn't a place where many reporters like camping out for any amount of time and, well… horses don't care what you look like."

No, I guess they don't.

I know I should probably respond with something kind and reassuring, but I can't think of a single thing to say. Somehow, her unexpected honesty has rendered me completely speechless.

Persis seems to notice, too, because she throws me a quick look. Then she sighs. "I overshared again, didn't I?" she asks, sounding defeated.

I'm still grappling for something to say. "No. No, it's… it's totally fine. Really."

Not that she believes it. Her eyes once more fixed on the horse below, she shakes her head, looking resigned. "I always do that. I don't dare talk to people at all and when I do, I tell them too much too soon. It's like… word diarrhoea. I just don't know when to stop. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for!" At least those words come easily. "I feel honoured that you trust me with this, especially…" I break off.

I meant to say 'especially given that we hardly know each other', but on reflection, that sounds terribly unkind, somehow.

Luckily, Persis doesn't dwell on it or ask what I meant to say. Instead, she moves her gazes to look at Roman, which is not quite _me_ , but at least the right direction. "Ken trusts you," she tells me, raising her shoulders in what is the suggestion of a shrug. "I'm rubbish at deciding who to trust, but everyone knows how wary Ken is when it comes to trusting newcomers."

She hesitates, then suddenly looks horrified. "Not that I'm suggesting that you are… you know…" She leaves the sentence hanging, clearly helpless at how to finish it.

I shake my head, trying to soothe her. "I know what you meant. It's okay."

I'm not part of the set of posh, titled people they grew up with, is what she's trying to say. Pointing that out to me is hardly going to make me feel insulted. For one, it is true. For another, after meeting Vera, Hilda and Dizzy and Egg, I'm quite certain I wouldn't even have _wanted_ to grow up as part of that set, no matter how nice Tatty, Katie and Persis herself are. Sometimes, being a mere commoner has its advantages.

Absent-mindedly patting Roman's neck, I watch as Lizzie, clearly bored with walking slowly, starts prancing, raising her head and swishing her tail. Persis shortens the reins and applies pressure with her calves, talking very softly to try and placate the mare. It takes a few moments, but finally, Lizzie settles down again.

Only then does Persis turn back to me. "Thank you for being understanding." There's sincerity in her eyes and not for the first time, it strikes me how uncertain she is. Maybe it's because I know Ken so well, but I expected his sister – a _princess_ – to be more… confident.

"Anytime." I smile at her. "And just let me say that whatever those nasty rags wrote, they were wrong. You aren't chubby. You're not so very tall, maybe, but you're fit. I'm skinny, but I'm also a wimp. What's betting my muscles will kill me tomorrow?"

It is, on second thought, a very forward thing to say. As for her reaction, it really could go either way, so I'm relieved when Persis offers a tentative smile. "Your muscles _will_ kill you tomorrow," she confirms.

Yeah. I thought as much.

"In that case, I'll make it count," I announce, trying to appear my most upbeat and encouraging in hopes of cheering her up. "Show me how to trot?"

Persis, seems to be quite glad to cease the talking for now and get back to being more active. She nods briskly, back in her element now that she can give me an impromptu riding lesson. "Roman is a quite comfortable to sit even when trotting, but you want to start with rising trot anyway," she tells me. "Do you remember how to do it?"

"I think so," I confirm, though I do feel a little apprehensive. Frowning in concentration, I shorten the reins and cautiously ask Roman to trot by applying pressure with my calves. He, being a good horse, does as he's told and falls into a trot that _feels_ fast to me but probably isn't.

I seem to do reasonably well with the rising trot, because after watching us with a critical eye for a short while, Persis apparently deems my attempt at riding satisfactorily and starts working with Lizzie as well. Naturally, it looks much more professional than anything Roman and I are doing, but so far, I haven't fallen off, so I shall count this day as a success regardless.

Thankfully, whichever God deigned to look over me keeps me astride the horse for another ten minutes, by which point my muscles are screaming for me to stop and get off.

"I think I'm done for today," I call out to Persis, who slows Lizzie from a canter right back into a walk, not bothering with the detour of trot.

"Don't you want to canter?" she asks, steering Lizzie over to where Roman and I stand.

"It's tempting, but I'd probably slide right off," I predict with a laugh. "Better leave that for next time."

Persis nods, looking somehow pleased. "Sure, next time." She points down at Lizzie. "I still need to work her a little longer. Do you mind?"

I shake my head. "Not at all. Should I go and unsaddle Roman?"

"Yes, you do that" decides Persis. "No reason for him to keep standing here. You can ask one of the grooms to help you, if there's any need."

Nodding my agreement, I just want to dismount – hoping that it won't be this final exercise that will have me flat on my back after all – when I hear a new voice behind me.

"Can I offer my assistance?"

It's a voice, so oddly, terrifyingly familiar, that I feel myself freeze. Oh boy!

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Here Comes the Sun' (written by_ _George Harrison, released by The Beatles in 1969_ _)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _I actually considered cutting last chapter's beginning for being not strictly necessary to the narrative. I decided against it because I felt they were due a bit of light banter. I put them through a bit of a troubling stretch before and it's been a while since they were just relaxed and joking around each other, so the scene stayed. I'm glad you enjoyed it, because it meant I was right to keep it ;)._  
 _I intentionally switched up Persis's character a bit in this story. Previously, I've written her in what seems to be the accepted fandom version, as someone who's confident and outgoing and interested in fashion. That's a perfectly valid reading of her, but it's really only based on one line in AoI about her sticking out her tongue at Gilbert. So I started thinking, what if this Persis is different? What if she started out as the girl sticking out her tongue, but then life happened and now she isn't that girl anymore? So I mulled on it for quite some time and the result is the version of Persis you see. As she's had more time to introduce herself now, what do you think of her at this point?  
Don't worry about not having another word to describe Teddy. 'Nice' is the perfect adjective for him. Teddy _is _nice, first and foremost. Later, someone who should know will call Teddy the kindest of the three siblings and they won't be wrong.  
As for the wedding, I suppose Rilla and Ken attending together will draw attention to them, but by then, they'll be dating almost three years, so it would be kind of odd not to invite him. Also, Nan's not at all interested in the press attention and she counts on her friends and family to know that this is her day, so I reckon it should be okay :).  
For the purposes of this story, Rilla was born in July 1989 and Ken in November 1984, making her 23 at this point and him 28. I have full family trees worked out for everyone, but figured I wouldn't inflict it on readers ;). If you're unsure about any other characters, feel free to ask though!_

 _To JoAnna:  
Oh, you definitely should check out _The Royal Correspondent _! It's a delight! McFishie and Alinya are also very generous about giving me final say about what information goes into their articles, so you can be sure that there won't be incorrect facts, not will there be spoilers of any substance. It's just a lot of fun and a great honour for me and my story.  
Persis definitely is a bit shy and also less open than Teddy. For being royals, they're both reasonably grounded and yes, I like to think they're nice ;). I hope that now that we've come to get to know Persis a little better, her behaviour is more easily understandable in context. What do you think of her after this chapter? Still nice, I hope? :)_


	52. Ice cream castles in the air

_Windsor, England  
February 2013_

 **Ice cream castles in the air**

Persis groans audibly. "Ken is going to kill me."

"I don't think he will," her father replies mildly.

He's casually leaning against the kickboards – the riding school's wooden outer limit – and looks… utterly normal. Still like himself, of course, still like the _King_ , but… not like _a_ king, if that makes any kind of sense.

I didn't expect him to turn up wearing some kind of crown, but… I also didn't expect him to wear jeans, boots and a duffel coat. I _certainly_ didn't expect him to just _turn up_ , period! (Doesn't he have a parliament to open somewhere?)

Persis makes a harrumphing sound of disbelief, but her father has already turned to me. "We meet at last, Miss Blythe," he remarks with a smile and a nod.

For a moment, I just stare at him. Then, remembering some of my manners, I try to reply but the only thing that will come out is a squeak.

Feeling my face heat up, I wish desperately to be somewhere, _anywhere_ else, but apparently, the universe is done granting my wishes today. As it is, I remain sitting on a dozing Roman, continuing to make an absolute fool of myself.

"It's okay. It's just Daddy," Persis helpfully supplies from the side. To her father, she says accusingly, "See why Ken is going to kill me? She wasn't supposed to meet you without him there. Don't you know he's kept her to himself for so long because he's afraid of us scaring her away?"

"Or the opposite," points out her father cryptically. (Which makes me think he might be more adept at reading his son than Ken gives him credit for. It's them usurping me that he's afraid of, much more than them scaring me away.)

Clearing my throat, I find that I have regained function of my voice. "I'm honoured to meet you –" quick, how to address him? – "Your Majesty? Sir?" It comes out as more of a question.

"Just Owen is fine," is his relaxed response and, well… I guess that simplifies matters somewhat?

"He'll _still_ kill me," Persis grumbles, urging Lizzie to walk closer to where her father is standing. Of his own accord, Roman follows.

"He won't," the King – Owen – and I promise at the same time. When our eyes meet, he offers me a smile and I tentatively return it. (This is very strange!)

"Could you even stop him?" Persis ponders, frowning deeply.

Her father chuckles softly. "I probably couldn't, but I do think Miss Blythe could."

"Call me Rilla," I blurt out quickly. "Please."

He inclines his head, his eyes crinkling up. "Very well. I am pleased to finally meet you, Rilla. We've all been curious about you."

I take a deep breath, unconsciously twisting a strand of Roman's mane around my index finger. "I didn't…" I begin, before trailing off.

"I know," assures the Ki– assures _Owen_. "Persis was quite right in saying that my son has been keeping you to himself a little bit."

Yeah. He has.

It would be disloyal to say that out loud though, so I settle for, "I'm very glad to be here. It is incredibly nice of Persis to allow me to ride Roman, especially what with how rusty I am."

"You did well," Persis chimes in. She has picked up Lizzie's reins again and is currently making her perform a turn of the haunches.

"It looked very good," her father agrees. I'd be lying if I claimed not to be pleased, even if I'm reasonably sure that they're just trying to be nice.

Leaning forward, I pat Roman's neck. "He did great," I declare. "He was very patient with me."

"He's a very gentle horse," agrees Owen, before asking, "Shall we take him back to the stables then?"

I blink. He _meant_ what he said about helping me?

Swallowing, I force myself to reply, "yes, sure", before dismounting the horse, hoping it will give me a moment to collect myself. (It might seem strange, given that I'm literally _living_ with a future king but… but this is the _current_ King and somehow, the idea of him helping me with anything is just odd. Seriously odd.)

"Can I interest the two you in a cup of tea later?" I hear Owen enquire from the other side of Roman's neck. Unsure how to answer, I busy myself with the stirrups and wait for Persis's reaction.

"I still want to take Tomato over some jumps today and do some elasticity training with Scotty," she demurs. "And I'm having the farrier over later to look at possible new types of horseshoes for Blue."

Her father makes a thoughtful sound, seemingly deliberating that answer. "Have you been to Windsor before?" he wants to know and it takes me a second too long to realise that the question is _not_ likely to be directed at Persis.

"No. No, I haven't been," I answer hurriedly.

With the left stirrup safely secured to the saddle to stop it flapping around, I have no option but to walk around Roman and pull up the other one, daring a quick glance at Own as I do.

"Would you enjoy a tour?" he queries further.

A… a tour? Of the… _castle_?

"Uh… sure. I mean, um… I'd like to," I stutter in reply. Roman turns his head towards me, probably to check whether I'm done embarrassing myself yet.

"Very well." Owen smiles at me. "How about we let Persis take care of her horses and I give you a tour of the castle? The paying visitors should be leaving as we speak, so we'd have it to ourselves."

I… _what_?

While I'm still struggling for words, Persis nods thoughtfully. "Good idea." She pauses for a moment. "Is Mum there?"

"She's visiting Genie," Owen answers.

Another nod from Persis, before she suddenly pulls a grimace. "Ken will kill me doubly for this."

"Happily, scientists have deemed that to be impossible," Owen informs her. To me, he adds, "Shall we?"

And really, what choice do I have but to take up Roman's reins and follow him?

We walk back to Roman's box, where I exchange the bridle for his halter and tie him to a steel ring secured in the wall.

"I hope I didn't catch you by surprise too much with my appearance," Owen remarks conversationally as he takes saddle from Roman's back.

The instinctive reaction would be to deny, but that'd also be patently untrue. So, I offer a tentative smile and admit, "A little bit."

"I apologise," replies Owen. "It was bad manners not to give you a warning."

"No. No, it's fine. Really," I hurry to assure him, hanging the bridle to a hook next to the stable. (Internally, I'd like to pinch myself. Have I really just been called upon to judge the manners of the _King_?)

He acknowledges it with a nod while placing the saddle over the chest-high door of Roman's box. "Thank you. I hope you will understand when I say that I have been looking forward to meeting you. My children are all very taken with you."

"Really?" The question has left my lips before I have time to remind myself that it probably isn't the done thing to question a monarch. (Which makes me wonder… should I have _curtseyed_ or something? Should I do it _now_?)

"I believe we can all agree that Kenneth is," Owen points out with a smile.

I laugh, almost despite myself. "Yes. I like to think so."

"He is, I can assure you," promises Owen, handing me a grooming brush. "Teddy also had nothing but nice things about you."

Now that, I _can_ believe.

"I doubt Teddy says not-nice things about anyone," I remark.

"You are not wrong," agrees Owen. "He is quite possibly the kindest of my children."

I don't have any trouble believing that either. Not that Ken and Persis are unkind, per se, but there is a gentleness and a nice-ness about Teddy that I don't think they – or most other people, me included – can match.

"Persis also responds well to you. She only allows a selected few people to ride her horses," Owen adds while choosen a hoof pick from the grooming box.

"It's an honour." It is, too, and I know it.

"She is surprisingly talkative around you as well." Owen's voice is slightly muffled as he leans down and takes up one of Roman's hooves. "Normally, she is shyer around a person she has not met often, but in your presence, she appeared uncommonly comfortable."

I absent-mindedly pull the brush over Roman's coat as I watch Owen set down the hoof again and straighten up. "She was such a bright, happy girl in her childhood…" He sighs and trails off, shaking his head slightly.

"I like them, too," I blurt out, if only to make the awkward moment pass. "I mean, I obviously like Ken, but I mean Persis and Teddy. They're really nice."

"They will be pleased to hear that," Owen assures me with a smile, having composed himself in the fracture of a second.

We work in silence after that, him picking out the other three hooves, me brushing down Roman's bay coat. Afterwards, I send the horse back into his box with a pat and a treat. Owen insists on carrying the saddle back to the tack room for me before tactfully withdrawing to allow me to change back into my normal clothes. Once I have re-joined him, he motions for me to leave the mews through a back gate.

Walking beneath a collection of trees, we near the castle which seems, somehow, to grow ever taller the closer we get. There's a tower ahead, its double door flanked by two guards wearing red uniforms and those ridiculous high, furry hats. As we pass them, they spring into action, saluting Owen snappily while still staring straight ahead.

Weird.

I mean, seriously. It must be weird, right? To have people salute you and bow to you wherever you go. (How come I have never asked Ken about this?)

"After you," Owen invites, motioning for me to enter the castle. I take a deep breath and step inside, sending a quick prayer to the heavens that I won't make a fool of myself or break something valuable. (Oh _God_! This place must be full of priceless stuff!)

Owen leads me up a staircase and through a collection of smallish rooms that look very ornate to _me_ , but apparently aren't worth another word to him, leading me to assume that in the grand scheme of things, they are unimportant.

As we walk, we pass several people wearing a blue uniform of sorts with red and white accents (very patriotic!) who I take to be… well. _Servant_ really is an odd word, isn't it?

The moment they see us, they stop whatever they're doing and go to stand with their backs to the wall, inclining their heads downwards into a funny little bow. Owen smiles and nods at each of them, greeting some by name, but it's only after we've moved past them that they relax again. It's similar to how the grooms melted away in the stables earlier, only much more pronounced.

"Trappings of the job," Owen remarks wryly when he sees my peering at one of the – one of the _employees_.

I feel tempted to ask how he feels about it, but I don't think it's the done thing and anyway, I've just remember something Grandmother Marilla said when she first met Ken. "We defer to the position, not to the person," I murmur to myself.

"Quite," agrees Owen.

He holds open another door for me, revealing a _seriously_ long hallway. It has blue-grey carpets, blue-grey upholstery, blue-grey wall hangings beneath – for a change – gold-framed portraits, and it has marble busts. _So_ many marble busts! I wasn't aware there was anywhere on earth with this many marble busts – nor do I know why anyone would want them in their home.

"We call this the long corridor," Owen relates.

Staring at the endless parade of busts among a sea of blue-grey, I blurt out, "Of course you do. It's _huge_!"

Realising what I've said, I feel myself redden. I _really_ need to work on thinking before I speak. What might normally be perceived as reasonably funny in other circumstances clearly won't cut it here, in a _castle_ , in company of a _king_.

But when I dare a quick look at Owen, I can see that he looks amused. His eyes crinkle up and it suddenly strikes me how much he looks like Ken when he smiles. (Or, I guess, the other way around.) Maybe that's why I return each of his smiles almost instinctively.

"It's certainly aptly named," he concedes, meaning the corridor. After a moment of deliberation he adds, almost conspiratorially, "We might rename it the Marble Bust Hall. What do you think?"

"A very fitting suggestion," I agree, feeling my smile widen.

As we start walking again, Owen adds, "The length of the corridor has served many an ancestor of mine well when the weather was adverse and they still desired a game of battledore and shuttlecock."

Shuttle- _what_?

When he sees my face, Owen starts chuckling. "Badminton," he translates.

"Then why not call it that?" I grumble, then bite back a groan. Again with the not thinking first!

But Owen looks distinctly amused. "Why indeed?" he asks, clearly rhetorically.

And, well, I guess there are worse things than being amusing, right? Being dull, for one. I'd hate to be dull.

We're nearing a bend in the corridor and Owen points to our right. "This stretch of rooms is guest rooms, sometimes still used for visiting dignitaries or simply for family or friends. Straight ahead is the King's Tower where Leslie and I have our private apartment." He points at a closed door right where we corridor bends.

"The children each have a tower for their use," he continues. (A _tower_! Just imagine!) "However, these days, only Persis sleeps in hers with regularity. Teddy sometimes comes down for the holidays, but we rarely see Kenneth here anymore."

I take a deep breath, swallowing against the lump in my throat without much success. "That's my fault. He returned to live in Oxford because of me," I admit, trying to keep my voice steady.

To my surprise though, I can see Owen shake his head vehemently. "Please, don't think that for a moment. This has nothing to do with you." He sounds very sure, even resolute, but there's something else in his voice, something I can't quite name.

For a few moments, we walk in silence, before Owen reaches out to open a door to his right. "The Blue Room," he explains, taking a step back to let me look inside. (It is, in fact, very blue.) "This is where Prince Albert died."

Remembering a long ago conversation, I feel my face heat up and desperately hope he won't notice.

Thankfully, Owen just keeps talking. "Victoria kept it untouched, ordering that warm water be brought to it every morning and his clothes and shaving kit be laid out."

"Obsessed much?" I remark drily, drawing a smile from him.

"She was, a little bit," he acknowledges. "His son, Edward VII, later turned the room into a study." Which it still is, judging from the furniture.

"So he wasn't a fan?" I ask.

Owen shakes his head. "Albert had a difficult relationship with his oldest son." Again, there's that almost imperceptible catch in his voice that makes me feel like I'm witnessing something not meant for me.

The door closes with a click and I am ushered along the corridor again, before we stop in front of another doorway. This time, Owen invites me to go inside a room that is entirely white and gold, with enormous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It was very obviously built to impress and though I've visited other castles and palace before (including the place they all so disrespectfully call Buck House), I can't help but _be_ impressed.

"These are semi-state rooms built for George IV," relates Owen as he motions me towards another interconnected room. This one is decked out entirely in green and gold, the chandeliers being possibly even bigger. Yet, it's the third and last room of the set that turns out to be the grandest, with its red walls, red curtains and red upholstery, and everything traversed by an intricately carved golden ceiling.

I turn around and take in my surroundings. The sheer opulence is very nearly oppressive, but I aim for sounding casual when I ask, "So these are the White, Green and Red Rooms?"

"Drawing Rooms," amends Owen. "And this colour here is more accurately called 'crimson'. But yes, your conclusion is correct."

"My conclusion?" I repeat, a little confused.

"That no-one could possibly accuse us of being creative when it comes to the naming of rooms," replies Owen, his eyes crinkling up in amusement.

I feel my shoulders relax slightly and even have the presence of mind not to point out that they get a pass because it's not like naming the hundreds and hundreds of rooms in various castles is a problem most people face. Really, who is even allowed to judge?

We move into the next room, introduced to me as the State Dining Room, as is also apparent from the massive table in the middle. It is set for no less than… four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty… _twenty-two_ people!

"Above us is the Prince of Wales tower," Owen tells me, pointing to the gilded ceiling. "That's where Kenneth has his rooms. Teddy's are in Chester Tower above the Green Drawing Room and Persis has hers in Clarence Tower above the Blue Room."

For a moment, I wonder why he tells me that. Unless… unless this is him preparing me to find my way around this place. For, you know, potential future visits. (What a thought!)

Leaving the dining room, we pass through a funny octagonal room before reaching a narrow hallway that is lined on both sides by cabinets filled with… is that _china_?

Huh. Who cares about _china_?

"The China Corridor," remarks Owen and when I look at him, I can see a distinctive twinkle in his eyes.

"Again with the creative naming, I see," I observe, not quite able to hide my smile.

"We do a little better with regards to naming when it comes to some of the State Rooms," he replies, opening the door at the end of the corridor for me. "Alas, I am afraid this room is simply called the Grand Reception Room."

I raise an eyebrow. "Where people are received, I presume?"

"Precisely," confirms Owen, nodding for me to step through the door.

When I do, the first thing I am confronted with is an absolutely _massive_ green vase. It is almost taller than I am!

"Ah, yes," says Owen in a tone suggesting he quite forgot that the vase stands there and only now remembers it. "It was given to Queen Victoria by Tsar Alexander I of Russia in 1839. It's made of malachite and one of the largest of its kind outside Russia."

"There are even _larger_ ones?" I ask in disbelief.

"I believe the Hermitage in St Petersburg has some even larger pieces," confirms Owen.

Fancy that.

For a moment, we both appraise the vase in all its massive splendour, before a sudden thought strikes me. "What does it do?"

Owen turns to me. "Pardon?"

"What does it do?" I repeat. "I mean, what is it _for_? What purpose does it serve?"

Evidently, that was not the question he expected. Frowning, he looks from me to the vase and back at me. "Do you know I've never asked myself that before," he replies in wonderment. "I believe it simply… stands there."

"Okay." I shrug, raising my eyebrows at the vase (and, yes, definitely judging it for its general uselessness.)

"Shall I tell you a secret?" Owen adds, lowering his voice, "it's too heavy to move. Victoria put it here and every subsequent monarch has left it standing in that exact same spot because we can't move it."

I glance at him, trying to figure out if he's serious, but although there's a smile playing on his lips, he appears quite sincere.

" _Really_?" I ask, the thought so utterly ridiculous that I can't help laughing.

"Regretfully, yes," answers Owen drily. I shake my head in disbelief.

Leaving the vase to its grand purpose of _being_ , we walk through the room into one that might just be the largest room I've ever seen. It's… _gigantic_!

"St George's Hall," states Owen. "It's more than 55 meters long." (See? Gigantic!)

"And finally somewhat creatively named!" I remark. He acknowledges it with a smile.

"Look at the ceiling," he continues. "It depicts the coats of arms of the knights of the Order of the Garter, our highest chivalric order."

I do as I am told, tilting my head back. "I've heard of that one, I think."

"Make Kenneth show you the robes before he comes down for the ceremony in June," suggests Owen, chuckling. "They're very historic, of course, but also quite comical to look at."

"Comical?" I repeat questioningly.

"There are plumes," he answers simply, as if that explained everything. (Maybe it does.)

After exploring St George's Hall, we pass through Waterloo Chamber, which apparently holds the largest seamless carpet in existence. It's so heavy it needs 50 men to carry! Next, we cross the Grand Vestibule which, weirdly, has lots of weapons arranged in geometric patterns on the walls. (As far as interior design goes, it's a _choice_ and one I can't wait to tell Nan about.) From the vestibule, Owen leads me through a collection of smaller but no less fancy rooms holding lots of antiques and probably priceless paintings. As we walk, he gives me so much information that my head starts to buzz.

Still. It's… the way he tells it, it's almost… dare I say that it's… _interesting_?

(Yeah, I know. Me finding historical facts interesting. The mind boggles.)

Finally, we reach a blue carpeted room at the end of which stands – a throne.

The throne that belongs to the man standing next to me.

As far as pinch me-moments go, this one sure is up there.

"The Garter Throne Room," states Owen. "The carved ivory throne was a gift to Victoria from India. Along the walls are State Portraits of several monarchs wearing Garter Robes."

Including, above the mantelpiece, a portrait of him. (There are, indeed, plumes involved.)

It's not Owen's portrait that draws my attention though (it would be awkward anyway) but that of a woman hanging next to his. I am more familiar with photos of her as an old woman but here, the late Queen Alexandra is shown both young and beautiful.

He follows my gaze. "My mother. It was painted shortly after she inherired the throne from her grandfather in 1937. She was not quite twenty-two years old."

"What happened to her father?" I ask. Because even I know enough to know that if she succeeded her grandfather, _something_ must have happened to the intermediate generation.

"She and her sister, my Aunt Tanya, were orphaned as children and raised by their grandparents, King Victor and Queen Mary," explains Owen. "Or Eddy and May, as they were known to the family."

There's something reassuring about the knowledge that even kings and queens have nicknames, isn't there?

"Their father Prince William – Willie to family – was killed by a tiger during an Indian tour in 1924," Owen continues.

I grimace. "Ouch."

"Oh, he partook in a tiger hunt, so I presume it had to be either him or the tiger," Owen replies, sounding utterly unconcerned about it. I guess that's understandable given that it happened _long_ before his birth.

Whatever the reason, he is unconcerned enough that I dare joke, "Survival of the fittest?"

"Quite." He smiles.

My gaze drifts back to the portrait of Queen Alexandra. She looks very serious, almost a bit sad. But then, I guess anyone would be sad if they lost their parents so early _and_ had an empire foisted on their shoulders at twenty-one.

"What happened to her mother?" I ask.

"My grandmother and her new-born son, Prince Nicholas, died from complications during child birth," Owen answers. "That was in… 1918."

"So did my grandmother," I tell him, still looking up at the portrait. "Only my father survived. Obviously."

Owen makes a thoughtful sound. "It is… difficult for a child to grow up without a mother present."

Once more, I have a feeling there's so much hidden in those words, if only I knew how to decipher it. It's not a wholly unfamiliar sensation either. Like father, like son, really. It's not only the smile they share.

There's a knock on the door and both Owen and I turn to see a tall, thin man enter.

"Ah, Elphinstone," greets Owen with a nod.

 _Elphinstone_? Is that his first or his last name? (Is it even a name at all?)

"Sir," replies the unfortunately named Elphinstone.

He doesn't offer an explanation for his appearance, but Owen does not seem to need one. Turning back to me, he explains, "I have an evening engagement, so I must leave you here. This is the last room of the tour, but please feel free to continue to explore for as long as you wish. If you have any questions or need assistance, everyone here will be happy to help you."

"Um, thanks. I mean, thank you," I stutter. (Did he _really_ just give me free reign to snoop around the castle as I wish?)

"Persis is staying for the night, so I have organised a car to take you home whenever you are ready," Owen adds. "When you come here to visit her and her horses next time, maybe we can take that tea together?"

"I'd like that," I reply, my smile absolutely genuine. "I really enjoyed, you know, _this_." Meaning the tour and getting to meet him and everything else I have no words for.

Owen returns the smile. "So did I." He reaches out to shake my hand, then turns to follow a departing Elphinstone. The door closes softly behind them and I am left alone, in the Throne Room of Windsor Castle.

This time, I _do_ pinch myself, looking at my surroundings in wonder. Let no-one ever say my life hasn't changed since I stumbled into Ken at that party in New York!

My thoughts must have invoked the proverbial devil, too, because in that exact moment, my phone rings and even before I've taken it out of my bag, I know it's Ken.

"Hey," comes is voice after I've picked up. "Where are you?"

Where am I indeed?

Of their own accord, my eyes move to the ivory throne. "I believe it's called the Garter Throne Room."

A pause, as he processes that. "She took you into the castle?" There's a slight catch in his voice and I instinctively think of his sister's lament about how he was going to kill her.

"Not Persis," I amend quickly. "Your father gave me a tour."

"My _father_?" he repeats. This time, I recognise his tone as one of surprise.

"Uh-huh." I nod at the empty room. "It was fascinating. He knows _so_ much about this place. It's really impressive. And super interesting, too. Did you know it has over 1000 rooms?"

For a second or two, there's silence on the other end of the line, but then I can hear him laughing softly. "I did, actually."

Right. Of course. He grew up here, didn't he? (And one day, all of this will be his. His throne to sit on. His portrait hanging over the mantelpiece. It's a… it's a strange thought.)

"In case you told him you enjoyed the tour, I hope you're aware that you've thereby volunteered to have him take you on a tour of every royal residence in the country," Ken discloses. He sounds distinctly amused at my expense. "And I must warn you that there are quite a few of them."

"I _did_ enjoy the tour," I insist. (I _really_ did, much to my own surprise.) "And I wouldn't mind him taking me to see some other places. It was fun and he's very nice."

I hear Ken swallow. Then, softer, he says, "I'm glad you two are getting along." I can tell he means it.

"We did," I reply honestly, before adding more teasingly, "You're still my favourite though."

He laughs. "That's what I wanted to hear. And given that I _am_ , do you have an idea when you're coming home to me? There's less gilding, but I can offer dinner and a hot bath."

As he speaks, I'm already heading for the door. "Give me an hour."

Because no matter how beautiful and interesting and impressive all of this is, it is also somehow unreal. It's a fluke moment. My life is in Oxford with Ken and hearing his voice, I have a sudden longing to get back to him. To get back home.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Both Sides, Now' (written by Joni Mitchell, released by her in 1969)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:  
Glad that you like Persis :). She does truly struggle with her confidence and being a princess probably makes it even harder for her. She struggles with the public aspect of her role and that just makes her feel more unsure about herself. With the horses, she's in her element and she knows she's as good rider, which makes it an environment that helps her believe in herself.  
I do, indeed, know a thing or two about horses. I got my first horse age 9, which is longer ago than I care to acknowledge ;). Currently, I have two horses who I see about every other day. (I had the dentist there just this morning, which is always... an experience. Let's just say horses aren't any more enthusiastic about a visit to the dentist than most humans are.)  
You got your wish! It was the King and not some random ex-boyfriend. Now, I absolutely have plans for some of them to pop up again in the future, but not quite yet ;)._

 _To JoAnna:  
Sorry about the cliffhanger! In my defence though, it wasn't planned. Originally, I planned to include the content of both the last chapter and this chapter in one single chapter. Considering that today's offering turned out to be one of my longest chapters yet, that was a naïve and delusional expectation, but it was my plan. When I realised the plan was never going to work out, I needed a good point to cut it into two and _that's _where the cliffhanger came into being ;).  
"Rusalka" is an opera by Dvořák. I myself am not an opera expert by any means, but it's my friend's favourite, so I chose it for Leslie's horse. I decided that everyone would have a theme for naming their horses and so Leslie got the operatic theme (for her own riding horse and the family's race horses). Owen has detectives (for the carriage horses) and Persis has royal references-cum-weird nicknames for her tournament horses. And then there are the Eds (the polo ponies), just because it amuses me._


	53. Girls, they want to have fun

_Oxford, England  
March 2013_

 **Girls, they want to have fun**

"What _time_ is it?" grumbles Nia as she stumbles into the room.

"Time to rise and shine!" I answer brightly.

She glares at me. "I _am_ up."

"Barely so," I point out slyly, which earns me another glare.

"It's nine o'clock," Seraphina chimes in as Nia plonks down on a chair next to her.

"In the morning," I add helpfully and I swear, if looks could kill, I would keel over right here and now.

"So, it's technically still the middle of the night," concludes Nia darkly. Seraphina just smiles and sips her coffee.

As a peace offering, I place a cup of coffee in front of Nia as well. She looks at is dubiously. "Did Rilla cook breakfast?" she asks no-one in particular. She doesn't spell it out, but the implication that breakfast from me is not to be trusted is clear.

"I resent that," I tell her mildly.

She shrugs and grins.

"I'll have you know that Ken cooked breakfast, so it should be edible" I inform her as I put two plates of full English breakfast on the table before taking a few steps back to lean against the kitchen counter.

Seraphina blinks at it. Nia prods a sausage with her fork.

"This is called a banger," I supply.

Seraphina blinks some more. Nia stabs the sausage.

"So, he cooks?" Seraphina finally asks, looking up at me.

"As Nia so helpfully insinuated, I'm not the greatest cook out there," I reply. "So, yes, he cooks."

Nia holds up her fork to inspect the sausage, before lowering it and pointing one end of the sausage at the black pudding.

"What's that?" she asks.

"Black pudding," I tell her gleefully. "It's a kind of blood sausage. Pork blood, I think."

"A _blood_ …" begins Seraphina incredulously before trailing off, her face turning slightly green.

Nia uses her knife to push the blood pudding to one side. "We don't have to eat it," she declares.

That, however, doesn't sit well with Seraphina. She turns to stare at Nia almost indignantly. "Not eat it? He cooked this specifically for us. We _have_ to eat it! It would be impolite not to! I mean, we're their guests and he's –," she lowers her voice to a stage whisper, "– he's a _prince_."

Oh, right. I suppose being served food cooked by a prince is still a memorable event for _some_ people.

Nia, evidently, isn't one of them though, for she looks distinctly unimpressed by Seraphina's outburst. "One day your manners are going to be the death of you. Possibly today, if you really plan to eat this blood sausage concoction."

"But…" protests Seraphina weakly, looking down at her blood sausage in dismay.

"Hey, Rilla, could you –" begins Nia, raising her head to look at me – and stopping dead in her tracks. "Oi! What are _you_ eating?"

"Cereal," I answer innocently, toasting her with the bowl I'm holding.

For a moment, there's silence, before Nia splutters, "Why do you get to eat cereal?"

" _Because_ ," I explain with perhaps a little too much relish, "it might be called an English breakfast, but many people in England don't eat it all that often. You're tourists, however, so you get the full experience, including the fry up."

"Turned you into a proper Englishwoman already, did they?" mutters Nia as she inspects her mushrooms. Seraphina, meanwhile, gingerly tries a piece of fried tomato.

"I'm a cosmopolite," I reply airily.

Seraphina has the good grace to try and hide her smile. Nia openly rolls her eyes at me.

I point an accusing spoon at them. "Careful or I'll make him cook you fry ups all week long!"

"That might be not so bad. These tomatoes taste quite nice," Seraphina remarks thoughtfully.

"And this bacon is good. It could be a little crispier though," adds Nia, chewing.

"Only Americans do crispy bacon, or so I have been informed," I tell her with a shrug. "The baked beans are very English, too. They go on the fried toast. And the egg is for dipping the black pudding in."

Seraphina looks up from where she was experimentally cutting a piece off her potato scone. (Potato scones being the more Scottish substitute for hash browns that Ken prefers.) "Does that make it better?" she asks, meaning the black pudding.

"I'm sure it does," I soothe, barely hiding a smile. "Besides, never forget that it could have been worse. He _could_ have served you devilled kidneys."

Nia huffs in disgust, but Seraphina nods valiantly. I have little doubt that she'd eat even the devilled kidneys if they happened to be on her plate, revolting as she might think them to be. Nia wasn't wrong about how deeply manners were ingrained into her.

"So, what are the plans for today?" Seraphina asks, obviously in an attempt to overcome the thought of devilled kidneys. (And rightly so.)

"I thought I'd show you around Oxford for a bit. We could also do tea in the afternoon and meet up with some friends later. Ken has a thing today, but he's free to join us for a pub dinner in the evening."

Seraphina nods approval.

"Sounds good," agrees Nia. "And tomorrow, we thought about going to see Windsor Castle. Care to accompany us?"

She looks at me slyly, but I just laugh it off. "Because that wouldn't look weird at all, right?"

"Maybe a little bit?" offers Seraphina, ever the peacemaker.

"More than that. The tabloids would have a field day if I were to take the public tour of Windsor." I pause briefly, imagining the headlines. " _Mitzi denied royal treatment in palace tour_. Or some such nonsense."

"Have you been to Windsor then?" Seraphina enquires curiously.

I take a sip of tea while I mull over how much to tell, before reminding myself that these are Nia and Seraphina and I can trust them. "Actually, for the past two months, I've gone riding at Windsor most Saturdays with Ken's sister and afterwards had tea with his father. More often than not, tea included a tour of different parts of the castle and grounds."

"You're having tea… with the King of England?" asks Seraphina, clearly incredulous.

I shrug, then nod.

Meanwhile, Nia rolls her eyes most expressively. "She's _sleeping_ with the future king. Why are you so surprised over some tea drinking?"

Instead of answering, Seraphina sticks out her tongue and proceeds to take a large bite out of her toast.

"Either way, Windsor is beautiful and I highly recommend you two going tomorrow," I assert, drawing attention back to the topic at hand. "You absolutely must see St George's Chapel. It's utterly gorgeous."

"They keep the chapel closed on Sundays," remarks Ken as he strolls into the kitchen, all kitted out in his ceremonial air force uniform. Behind him follows George, tail languidly moving from side to side.

I bend down to stroke George's head. "Can't we do something about that?" I wonder aloud. (After all, sleeping with the future king has got to have _some_ advantages.)

Ken reaches out to take a piece of toast with jam from a plate sitting next to me. "Sure. My father can arrange for someone to give them a tour and open up the chapel."

"Can he do that?" blurts out Seraphina.

Both Ken and I turn to her in surprise. She isn't really asking whether the King can open parts of his own castle for visitors, is she? (George, too, has noticed her and the enticing smell coming from the breakfast plates. He crouches down, preparing to jump on the table, but Ken quickly picks him up. George meows at this betrayal.)

"What she means is whether he _would_ do that for us," amends Nia, sounding very reasonable but directing a grin at Seraphina.

Setting down George on the kitchen counter, Ken takes another bite of toast, before retrieving his phone from his tunic pocket and holding it out to me. "If Rilla asks him, I'm sure he will."

He's clearly teasing me and to put him in his place, I respond with my loftiest of glances. I do take the phone from him though, selecting his father from among his contacts and pressing 'call'.

Four rings later, Owen picks up. "Kenneth? Did something happen?"

"Actually, it's Rilla," I clarify.

"Rilla!" He sounds genuinely pleased. "How nice to hear from you. What is the occasion?"

"I… I mentioned having friends from America over this week, didn't I?" I begin, searching for a good way to phrase my request. "They want to visit Windsor Castle tomorrow and I was wondering whether there might be a way for them to see the chapel."

His answer is instantaneous. "Of course! We can arrange for someone to take your friends on a tour that includes the chapel. Just tell them to identify themselves as belonging with you at the ticket office tomorrow and everything else will be taken care off. No entry fee for friends of you, naturally."

They'll be pleased to hear that. Tickets to Windsor Castle are no less expensive than those for Buckingham Palace.

There's a muffled sound, before I hear Owen's muted voice as he asks someone else, "What did you say, darling?"

For a few moments, there's silence, before Owen returns to the phone. "Persis asked whether you want to come tomorrow as well and take some horses hacking with her."

I hesitate. "That's a tempting offer, but…"

"But Sundays belong to my son," finishes Owen kindly. "I understand."

He's right, too. Ken's been very good about me spending most Saturdays at Windsor (though he's so far not shown any inclination to accompany me), but we've come to the unspoken agreement that Sundays belong to the two of us. Sometimes, we go out to do things together and sometimes, we just stay in for a quiet day, but if at all possible, we spend Sundays together.

"Tell your friends I hope they will enjoy the castle and of course, we're always happy to see you when you have time," continues Owen. "I thought we might have a look at Frogmore House next and Persis is considering graduating you to Blue."

"Sounds great," I answer with a laugh "Thank you!"

We say our goodbyes and I lower the phone to the expectant gazes of Nia and Seraphina. (Ken is still munching on his toast. Or, my toast, rather. George has discovered my half-empty cereal bowl and happily laps up the milk. Between the two of them, it's a wonder I get food at all in this house!)

"All settled," I announce. "I just organised you a free private tour, _including_ the chapel."

Seraphina shakes her head in a way reminiscent of a wet dog. Even Nia looks mildly impressed. "Breakfast made by a prince and a private tour organised by a king," she remarks, raising both eyebrows.

That succeeds in getting Ken's attention. "Did you enjoy the breakfast?" he wants to know. "I see my girlfriend has been shunning it again."

"I have a figure to watch," I point out to him.

"No, you don't," he demurs, even as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to himself, giving me a kiss that is a little sticky and tastes distinctly of strawberry.

Behind us, I think I can hear Seraphina whispering "aww" and I _know_ Nia to be rolling her eyes.

Releasing me, Ken takes a step back and pockets his phone. "I've got to run. I wish the three of you a great time exploring Oxford." He turns to look at my friends, including them in the sentiment. "See you tonight at the pub?"

"You bet," I reply, giving him a wide smile that he returns easily. Brushing his fingertips along my face in farewell, he picks up a protesting George to take him outside, then turns to leave the room. I can't really help leaning forward to look after him, until –

Nia clears her throat pointedly.

Feeling my cheeks grow warm, I turn back towards my friends. "Sorry," I murmur, a little sheepish.

Seraphina just laughs. "Don't be. I would look, too."

"In fact, you _did_ look," points out Nia with a knowing smile.

"So I did," confirms Seraphina cheerfully. "No harm in looking, right? Especially not when a uniform is involved." She pauses for a moment, clearly pondering. "I wonder what it is about uniforms? Is it just that the garment itself is sexy or is it because it has the connotations of a brave hero off to fight for justice?"

"Oh, please," groans Nia.

"I've never thought about that before," I admit, barely able to contain my laughter. "But if it helps you any, I can tell you that Ken might consider himself and air force man, but _I_ prefer the navy uniform."

I wiggle my eyebrows jokingly, causing both of them to break into peals of laughter. I join in, silently reflecting how glad I am to finally have them back again, if only for a week. So much has changed, but our friendship still feels like it always did and it is that realisation that makes me resolve to cherish these days as best as I can. (Thankfully, their spring break fell between terms for me. I even managed to swap shifts at work, ensuring maximum amount of time spend together.)

Seeing as I also promised to properly introduce them to England, I have quite a full day planned, so with breakfast finished (and black puddings conspiratorially disposed of), we set out toward the town centre and the university. To the regular tourist, these two things are very nearly interchangeable, after all.

Thus, I firstly take them to the most famous sights Oxford has to offer. After all, we have plenty of time in the next couple of days to do the more obscure ones as well as those not immediately in the city centre. The Cotswolds are right on our doorstep and Stratford-upon-Avon isn't far. Nor is London, should they start missing the bustle of a big city. Plus, closer to home, the Pitt Rivers Museum and the Ashmolean are always worth a look should it rain, so it's not like we'll run out of things to see.

Today, our first stop is the Bodleian Library, as befitting a proper Oxford tour. Vexingly, they don't let you take guests in there, so Nia and Seraphina will have to make sure to come back for a public tour. Can't miss the Divinity School and St Humphrey's Library, after all! As it is, however, we're left with no choice but to wave at both the Bodleian and Radcliffe Camera from the outside and move on.

Next is the Sheldonian Theatre, where, God and my professors willing, I will be awarded my degree in a few months. It's from up in the tower of the Sheldonian that one truly realises why they call Oxford the city of spires. Whichever way you turn, it all spires and turrets and towers, making for quite a compelling sight.

From the Sheldonian, we pop next door into the Museum of the History of Sciences, if only to look at Einstein's writing on the blackboard they keep on the lower level. With Trinity College and Balliol just over the street, we continue our tour there, before walking down to Christ Church, as famous for its cathedral and its history as for its Harry Potter connections. A visit to Magdalen College takes us past lunch hour and I decide to leave any other colleges for another day. (Of course, I also definitely plan to take them to Oriel and introduce them to as many quirky traditions as I can.) Instead, we stop by The Rose, a café that is quite the excellent spot to take tourists to.

"And now for some genuine English afternoon tea," I announce as we take our seats. Placing our order, I decide to go all out, getting the sparkling variant that includes not only tea, scones, cakes and finger sandwiches but also a glass of champagne for each of us, because why the hell _not_?

My friends seem less suspicious of this part of the English cuisine than they were of blood pudding, tucking in with gusto.

"These are very good," declares Nia, mouth full, and holds up a half-eaten scone.

"So are the cakes," adds Seraphina, chasing a bite of lemon tart with a sip of champagne.

"They are," I agree. "I first came here when my sister Nan tasked me with trying out different cakes and sending her my assessments so she could decide which type to serve at her wedding."

Nia slathers fresh clotted cream and jam on the remaining half of her scone. "She's getting married this summer, isn't she?"

"She is," confirms Seraphina in my stead. " _People_ did an article about it a while ago."

I grimace. "So they did. Nan wasn't well-pleased. I can't blame her, either."

"It was a nice article," Seraphina points out, selecting a cucumber sandwich. "The tone was almost gushing."

"It wasn't the tone she disliked, it was more that they wrote an article at all," I explain, while taking a bite of my millionaire's shortbread. (Which is delicious enough to make my shortlist for Nan, but also undoubtedly much too filling to get chosen.)

Seraphina makes a thoughtful sound. "I suppose it would be irritating to have people snooping around your wedding preparations."

"That's what Nan says," I confirm. "For reasons only known to them, the press people have decided that they need to find out as much as they can about her wedding in advance, just because she's my sister. As Nan, understandably, does not want her wedding dress splashed all over _Hello!_ before the big day, it has her running around trying to keep everything secret and that is adding even more stress to an already stressful time."

"Can't someone tell them to back off?" Nia wants to know, wrinkling her nose.

I shrug, helplessly. "They're hardly going to listen to us tell them to stop. And it hasn't been bad enough to drag in lawyers."

"Couldn't Ken…?" begins Seraphina.

She falls silent when I shake my head. "If he did, that would probably just intensify interest," I explain. "I hate that this is putting such stress on her, but the best thing we all can do is to keep our heads down and wait for it to pass."

Nia narrows her eyes, clearly not agreeing with me, but nevertheless letting the topic slide. Seraphina sighs in sympathy and shakes her head ruefully.

I truly wish there _was_ more I could do (and Di hinted strongly that I _should_ ), but I don't see how. I can't control the tabloids and of course, it's not helped by the fact that inviting Ken to her wedding apparently isn't nearly as straight-forward as Nan thought it would be. I took it upon myself to liaise with Beckett about security requirements, giving her only a filtered version, but it's not making things any easier.

Add to that that Nan has her heart set on the _perfect_ wedding and stress levels are skyrocketing. She's totally micromanaging this and I'm certain that even if I were dating Joe Average, my sister would already be stressed out by her wedding preparations alone, but seeing as I am _not_ … well, I'll sure be glad when this wedding is behind all of us.

"We can just try to support Nan as best as we can. Hence why I took it upon myself to go cake tasting for her," I tell my friends, trying to lighten the mood.

"Such a sacrifice," replies Nia drily. Seraphina laughs, before leaning over to steal some of my millionaire's shortbread.

"This is good!" she declares, chewing. "Very sweet though."

I nod, suppressing a smile. "It is. But since _I_ didn't have a full fry up this morning…" I leave the sentence dangling, but the meaning is clear, causing both of them to look at me with indignation. Nia even throws her napkin at me, but I dodge it most masterfully.

In retaliation, they make me try ever type of cake or sandwich sitting on our table (also a _great_ sacrifice, that) and we spent a fun half an hour comparing opinions on the various offerings. Only once every last crumb is eaten and all tea cups and champagne glasses emptied, do we get up from our cosy corner table and leave the cafe.

Having asked my Oxford friends to meet us next to University Church, I lead Nia and Seraphina down High Street. Once there, I immediately spot Lucy, Dev and Josh by the railings.

"There they are!" I raise one arm to alert them, while motioning Seraphina and Nia forward with my other hand.

"The Yankees have arrived!" cries Dev once we're in earshot.

"Hardly," drawls Nia, the Southern gal.

"Guilty," admits Seraphina, born and bred in New England as she is.

Shaking my head at Dev, I decide to quickly get introductions out of the way. "These are Nia and Seraphina." I point at both of them in turn. "Here we have Lucy and Josh and the impolite brute is Dev.

"Hey!" protests Dev, but no-one pays him any heed. Only Nia raises an eyebrow, but when I roll my eyes heavenwards with a smile, she, too, allows herself a grin.

Where Dev is his usual unfiltered self, Josh appears to be a little overwhelmed, not quite daring to look at either of my American friends. Therefore, I quietly thank God for Lucy, who sets the ball rolling by asking about what parts of Oxford we visited during the day. Seraphina jumps to answer and between the two of them, they quickly establish an easy conversation, the rest of us chiming in as we see it fit.

Chatting about this and that, we stroll along High Street. I notice some tourists stopping and raising their phones when they recognise me, but make a point to ignore them. I'm used to random people on the street thinking it perfectly justified to take pictures of me, even more so when I'm with Ken, but it's an unwinnable battle. So long as they don't shove their cameras into my face, I just pretend they don't exist.

It's some minutes of walking and chatting later, that Josh catches my eye and leans a little closer to tell me quietly, "There's a photographer over there."

Yes, I know.

"I noticed," I murmur back. "He's one of the guys working for Getty. They usually know not to be intrusive. Don't pay him any attention."

"You can tell them apart?" asks Nia in wonder.

I can only shrug, because really, what is there to say to that? Some of these photographers have been an unbidden part of my life for the better part of 18 months now, so I couldn't _not_ get to know their faces.

Not that I get to explain any of that though, because Dev takes that moment to ask loudly, "Who wants ice cream?"

"We just had tea, Dev," I tell him gently.

"And we'll be too full for dinner later," adds Lucy, exchanging a long-suffering glance with me.

"So?" Dev appears unperturbed. "Tea and dinner have no bearing on the ice cream stomach."

Seraphina turns to me in puzzlement. "The ice cream stomach?"

"Just roll with it," I advise quietly. She frowns, but nods.

Nia, meanwhile, declares simply, "I would like ice cream."

That causes Dev to beam at her. "Excellent! We have the best ice cream parlour right over here. They have flavours you've never tasted before."

"Probably with good reason," mutters Lucy.

Dev, alas, has already grabbed Nia with his right hand and Josh with his left, dragging them over to the ice cream place. The rest of us have little chance but to follow them inside. Once there, Dev grandly tells us to order whatever we want, which results in a scoop of vanilla ice for Lucy (the only mundane option they still offer, for reasons of 'tradition') and white peach for me, whereas Nia and Seraphina try chili chocolate and a combination of orange and basil, respectively.

The boys, on the other hand, order a concoction called 'bacon mascarpone ice cream', resulting in horrified looks from Nia and Seraphina and a resigned sigh from Lucy.

"You don't have to eat that just because he put you up to it," I remind Josh after we've left the place and nod at Dev as the culprit.

Dev throws me a wounded look. I bite back a smile.

"Especially because you could always cite religious reasons for your refusal to eat it," points out Lucy reasonably. "Not mixing meat and milk and all that."

Josh looks from her, to me, to his ice cream and finally back up at all of us. "I just like ice cream," he states, sounding a little helpless.

Immediately, Dev claps him on the back, a proud smile on his face. "That is the spirit!" Says it and turns on his heel without another word, marching back into the ice cream parlour.

"Where is he going?" asks Seraphina, staring after him in wonder. Nia quietly eats her chili chocolate ice and grins to herself.

"To buy more ice cream," deadpans Lucy.

And indeed. Just a fraction of a second later, Dev sticks his head out of the door and asks, "Does anyone want to try the fish and chips flavour?"

Unsurprisingly, there are no takers.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' (written by Robert Hazard, released by Cyndi Lauper in 1983)._

* * *

 **A/N: On this cheery note, I must leave you for a little while. I'm away on a work trip all next week, so posting will skip one Wednesday. Regular updates will resume on Dec 4th. In the meantime, any and all comments are as always much cherished and appreciated :).**

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Leslie is the daughter of a British earl, so she's definitely "well-bred". She has the pedigree, so that wasn't the reason for why Owen's mother didn't approve of her. (We will get into that in around ten chapters, according to the current plan.) Owen's father was also an earl's son and all previous royal spouses were royal themselves, which makes Rilla the first true commoner who could conceivably end up as a royal consort.  
Owen and Ken most definitely have history and not solely of the good kind. (More on that in around ten chapters as well.) I think Owen would like them to be closer, but there's lingering resentment on Ken's part that goes back many years and has never been properly resolved. That's why Ken's gut reaction is not to want Rilla close to his family, but he listened when she expressed a wish to meet them, so he's trying to be supportive about it. We shall file that under "progress".  
Ah, yes, "pony" covers a wide range of different smaller horse breeds. I was taught that a horse smaller than 14.3 hands is considered a pony, which includes a lot of relatively tall and horse-like looking ponies, but of course, it goes all the way down to furry Shetland ponies. (Cute as buttons, but also pretty cheeky little beasts!) My horses are giants anyway - 16 and 17 hands, respectively. Too tall for short me to look over their backs ;).  
_

 _To JoAnna:  
Meeting Leslie will most definitely be interesting! It's one of the scenes I had fully planned pretty much from the beginning and it will be a very important turning point both for the story and for Rilla and Ken's relationship. All that is not solely because of Leslie, but the meeting is caused by other 'situations' and it's the catalyst for further change to come. So, yes, should be interesting ;).  
I've decided that history is Owen's thing. Like Persis has horses (and sports) and Teddy has design and arts. To Leslie, I allocated music, but of the more classical kind than Ken listens to (hence Rusalka). "Kind and caring" also characterises Owen very well. I see him as a fundamentally nice person who was born into very odd circumstances that don't always let him act in the way he'd like to. But he resolved to make Rilla feel welcome and he really made an effort to make it happen. And yes, he does find her amusing which, as Rilla notes, is not a bad thing. It certainly gives them something to create a tentative bond over and that's a good thing :). _


	54. The young men who move in your circle

_Oxford, England  
April 2013_

 **The young men who move in your circle**

Beckett looks up when I stop my bike next to him. "Good evening, Miss," he greets politely.

"Hello," I reply, before nodding in direction of the house. "Are his guests still there?"

"They are, Miss," confirms Beckett.

Humming thoughtfully, I look at the house for a moment or two, then give myself a mental push. "Better go and meet them," I declare brightly.

"Certainly, Miss," agrees Beckett evenly. (Sometimes, I feel tempted to poke him or pull his hair or something, just to find out whether he's actually human. I can't say I'd be too surprised if the turned out to be a droid.)

Feeling I should say something in parting, I settle on a somewhat awkward, "Well… have a nice evening, then."

Beckett inclines his head. "You, too, Miss." If he picked up on the fact that I just wished him a nice evening despite him spending said evening standing on the street in front of our house, he does not show it. But then, Beckett rarely ever shows what he is thinking. (Definitely droid, I'm telling you. At least some kind of weird hybrid!)

Leaving Beckett behind, I push my bike up the short driveway and lean it against the low wall to my left. I'm secretly quite glad to no longer be riding it. My shoes are very pretty (dark green and strappy), but also arguably too high to safely ride a bike in. It's a bit of a relief that I managed to make it home in one piece, to be honest.

Upon reaching the front door, I briefly consider ringing the bell, if only out of laziness, but then decide against it and fish the keys out of my little evening bag. The door is, as ever when Ken's in, not properly locked (the easier for the PPOs to storm the house, should it prove necessary), so I just need to turn the key once to move the latch back and the door swings open.

As I shrug out of my jacket, I'm still undecided whether to call out to alert the inhabitants to my presence or just go upstairs. The decision is taken from me when, seconds later, I hear familiar footsteps coming closer, followed by Ken appearing in the hall.

"You're back," he states – quite unnecessarily – and smiles.

"So I am," I confirm. Out of habit, I turn to hang my jacket from the hall stand, but find it already well-occupied. I count at least five unfamiliar-to-me jackets.

Ken has followed my gaze. "They're still here," he remarks, stretching out a hand to take my jacket from me.

"I know. Your bodyguard said," I inform him. I brace my one hand against the wall, balancing first on one leg and then on the other to take off my shoes.

"Don't let him hear you call him that," warns Ken, but he's grinning as he says it.

I shrug and grin back at him. "I'm unconvinced anything would actually happen. I've never seen that man loose his cool."

"Nor I," acknowledges Ken, inclining his head to show that he's accepting my point.

As I carefully place my shoes in a corner (they're new, after all), Ken hangs my jacket over the back of a chair that is otherwise just uselessly standing in the hall. This accomplished, he looks back at me. "So…" He trails off.

"So…?" I mimic, even though I have a pretty good idea what he means to say.

"So they're still here," he elaborates. "And they'd like to meet you. Are you up for it? If not, we can sneak you upstairs and I'll tell them to live with it."

I shake my head. "No, let's meet them. Or re-meet, I should say. Haven't I met some of them at the godawful engagement party last year?"

No clarification needed as to which 'godawful engagement party' I mean.

"You have." A pause, as Ken looks at me with something akin to surprise. "I didn't realise you remembered them."

"I don't," I reply, giving him a wide smile and brushing past him towards the dining room.

I really don't remember most of them. All those people I was introduced to at that party kind of started to run together pretty quickly. I really only remember those that made themselves memorable by being nasty. Anyone would be hard-pressed to forget a Vera Lloyd, even if, I'm sure, there are many people out there who would very much like to forget her, thanks a bunch. Memorable as Vera is, I hardly remember any of the other women I met and of the men, I really only recall Steve and Airedale-obsessed Giles. I wager a guess that the latter is not likely to be present tonight. (Just as well, too. I'm unsure what George would do to an Airedale-obsessed person, but whatever he would do, I'm confident I'd do little to stop him.)

Feeling Ken's presence close behind me, I step into the dining area. There are five men sitting at the table, just as there were five unfamiliar jackets hanging outside. All five of them – the men, not the jackets – are turned towards me, watching me with apparent curiosity.

"Good evening, gentlemen," I greet them, tilting my chin up in an attempt to exude more confidence than I truly feel.

No sooner have I uttered the words than one of them jumps to his feet. At second glance, I recognise Steve Broderick. Somewhat bemused, I observe him rushing over to stand in front of me.

Reaching out to grasp one of my hands, he declares, "I must offer my sincerest apologies! Can you forgive me?"

"Um…" My first impulse is to turn to look at Ken, but I suppress it. I don't want to appear needy or insipid.

"For how you were treated while a guest in our house," clarifies Steve as he releases my hand. "I failed to notice at the time, but Fiona alerted me to it. It is utterly inexcusable, but I hope you will nevertheless forgive me. Name your price!"

Price?

"There… there is no price," I assure him (partly because I'm not yet ready to say that there's nothing to forgive). "It's okay. I mean… I'm still here, right?"

By which I mean to say that it didn't kill me and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger and all that, but Steve obviously misunderstand spectacularly. "And thank goodness for that! I never would have forgiven myself if a weekend spent in my home had contributed to the demise of your relationship." He looks genuinely stricken at the thought.

It hits a little too close to home for me – and not only for me. Behind me, I can hear Ken make a sound that is too unthreatening to be a warning but clearly meant to remind Steve of… something. Some kind of pre-agreed code of conduct, probably. (The mere thought makes me want to roll my eyes.)

Though whatever it is that he meant to communicate to Steve, it completely goes over the latter's head anyway, for he continues blithely, "I owe Ken far too much to play any part in chasing away his girlfriend."

"Really?" I ask, starting to feel amused. "Why do you owe him?"

"I never would have passed Latin at Eton if he hadn't helped," Steve announces with great conviction. "Nor French." He pauses, pondering. "Or maths, come to think of it."

"What Stevie is trying to say is that Ken had a distinct part in him getting his GSCEs," chimes in another of the men from where they're seated at the table.

Steve, bless him, nods to back that up and adds brightly, "And A-levels as well." (Whatever his failings, false pride certainly isn't one of them.)

"Yes, thank you, Steve, Mark." It's Ken's voice from behind me, sounding the tiniest bit irritated.

I, however, chose to ignore him, instead focusing on the man who is obviously Mark. "I've heard about you," I tell him.

"Likewise," he responds, tipping his head slightly.

Hmm. So they've been talking about me, yes?

I consider protesting, but Ken seems to sense my thoughts before I can voice them out loud. "Only good things," he promises, laughter in his voice.

Placing a hand on the small of my back, he guides me forward towards the table, but I make a point to shake off his touch. Instead, I approach the man called Mark and offer him my own hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," he replies, standing up and briefly clasping my fingers.

"And mine!" announces one of the hitherto silent men, loudly scraping his chair back as he gets up. I watch him curiously as he walks around the table, comes to a stop in front of me and performs a formal bow, never once breaking eye contact.

"I see your form hasn't improved much, Damian" points out Ken drily. Turning my head slightly, I can see him and Mark exchange a grin.

Damian, as I perceive the bowing man to be called, just ignores him. Like his two friends before him, he also seizes my hand, but unlike they did, he bends to gallantly kiss the back of it before I have even time to blink.

"My name is Damian," he tells me, straightening. "And I begin to understand why Wales has been hiding you away. Were you mine, I wouldn't introduce you to other men either."

Uh…

"You're the only one I had second thoughts about introducing her to and not for the reasons you think," interjects Ken, deadpan. The other men laugh and I can't help a smile either.

Even Damian, I notice, has mirth dancing in his eyes. He keeps his face perfectly sincere and ardent, but he's no less amused by this than the rest of us are. He's clearly the charismatic one of the group and he's playing up his role, but it's all in good fun. However many women he might otherwise charm on any given evening, there's obviously one of these antiquated men's codes in place that basically makes me untouchable. (Also eye roll-worthy, of course, but I keep my face straight.)

"Thank you," I tell Damian in my most well-mannered voice. Pausing for effect, I then add, sotto voice, "I guess."

He flashes me a wide grin, finally letting go of my hand. "You're most welcome!"

This time, I allow myself a small eye roll, before looking at the remaining two men who are standing next to their chairs. "And you are…?"

"I'm Hugh," answers one of them, raising his hand.

"Hugh," I repeat, committing the name to memory.

He, however, shakes his head. "No. The name's Hugh."

I frown at him, feeling confused. "Hugh, right?"

"It's Hugh," he corrects – or would be correcting if there was anything to correct.

Despite my confusion, I resolutely don't look to Ken for help. When Mark speaks up, I'm still quite grateful for the support. "She's saying it right, Hugh," he remarks. (Indeed pronouncing the name no different than I – or indeed Hugh himself – did.)

"But I can tell that she's spelling it wrong in her head," insists the man who might be called Hugh. Looking closer, I can see that his mouth is twitching, as if he's suppressing a grin, and that's when I realise that he's joking.

I still don't understand what he's on about though, so make a valiant attempt at figuring it out. "There are different ways to spell the name?"

"Certainly!" assures Maybe-Hugh. "There's the bog-standard English way of spelling it H-U-G-H and there's the traditional, beautiful Scottish way of spelling it H-E-W."

Right.

"And I imagine you spell yourself the Scottish way?" I guess. (It would explain his accent, anyway.)

"The only correct way to spell it," affirms Hew-not-Hugh. "It's also not the way Hugh Grant spells his name."

"And bonus points are absolutely awarded for that," I finish for him, nodding gravely.

"Absolutely," agrees Hew, before declaring to no-one in particular, "She gets it!"

Well, I do try.

Turning to the last remaining man, I ask, "Anything I ought to bear in mind when it comes to your name?"

He shakes his head. "I'm Tony," he replies simply, a slight smile on his lips.

Probably not too many ways to spell that one. Though in fairness, before tonight, I didn't know there was another way to spell Hugh either.

"Tony is the brilliant one," Steve informs me sincerely. "He always had the best grades of us and won all the scholarships."

Scholarships? Interesting. That means I might not be the only one in this room with paupers for parents.

"I'm just lucky to have a good memory," Tony demurs quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.

Steve, however, is not to be deterred. "The only subject Tony didn't get the best grades in was PE," he continues thoughtfully. "Hew is the best sportsman of us."

Looking at Hew, I have little trouble believing that. Moving my gaze from him to Damian next to him and then to look at each of the men in turn, I realise that we're all standing somewhat awkwardly around the table, so I quickly invite them to sit, please.

There's some shuffling as everyone sits back down. As we're a chair short, I motion for Ken to scoot back a little and settle myself on his knees. His arm comes up to wrap around my waist and I sense, more than I feel, him briefly kissing the back of my neck.

Reaching out, I pick up glass that I perceive to be Ken's and take a sip of the golden-brown liquid. Whiskey. Instinctively, I wrinkle my nose.

"Do you want some?" As he speaks, Mark is already reaching for the bottle.

I don't have time to decline though, before Ken interjects, very matter-of-factly, "An 18-year-old Lagavulin Feis Ile? Let's not waste it like that."

"Waste it? That's no way to speak about a lady, Wales," chides Damian, looking indignant on my behalf.

He seeks eye contact with me, probably to show that he understands how to treat a lady, but I just laugh it off. "He's not wrong, is the thing. Whiskey is an acquired taste and I never did acquire it."

"Which is why I have a bottle of Petit Mouton waiting on the kitchen counter for you," Ken informs me, a smile in his voice.

Now this is more like it!

I move to stand up, but Tony is faster. "I've got it." He moves over to the kitchen area and, with directions from Ken, pours and brings me a glass of red wine.

(It's excellent red wine, too. One of the reasons I couldn't break up with Ken even if I wanted to is that I'm forever spoiled when it comes to good booze. I can't really see myself going back to the cheap supermarket wine I used to drink.)

Sipping my wine and settling back more comfortably against Ken's chest, I look at the men in front of me and ask, "So, you all know each other from school, right?"

"We all attended Cheam together," replies Mark, nodding.

"Cheam was –" begins Ken.

"– before Eton," I finish. "Yes, I know."

Cheam School was the boarding school Ken was sent to at age eight, shortly after his grandmother died. (Age eight! To a boarding school!) And these here are the friends he made there, or at least the friends had there. I seem to remember that Steve and probably one other friend predate his school days. Either way, it was a friendship forged in the English boarding school system and given how young they were when they essentially left home, I have no trouble understanding why it's a strong one.

"Steve and I were at Eton as well," Mark explains. "Hew attended Gordonstoun, Damian was at Marlborough and Tony went to Harrow."

All, I assume, posh private schools.

"As for university, Steve defected to Newcastle and Damian was at Exeter," continues Mark. "Hew, perhaps wisely, forwent it altogether."

Hew shrugs. "My old man kicked the bucket when I was in sixth form. I had to take over management of our estate up in Scotland."

"Quite a responsibility," I observe.

He shrugs again. "Nothing compared to what Wales will one day have to shoulder. And he doesn't even get to choose his own estate manager!"

Estate manager?

"He means the prime minister," clarifies Ken quietly.

Well. I guess that's a novel way to describe the person running this country.

Taking another sip of wine, I look from Hew to Tony sitting next to him. "What about you?" I ask him, trying to draw him into the conversation. "Which university did you go to?"

"Oxford. Same as Mark and Ken," he replies with a lop-sided smile. "I almost went to Cambridge, but that was frowned upon."

"Rightly so," I decide. If I've learned one thing in my time here it's that you're either a Cambridge or an Oxford person. Apparently, they're mutually exclusive.

"Ah, those were the days." Mark sounds a little wistful. "It's nice coming back though. Revives all those memories."

Ken laughs softly. "We did have some fun, didn't we?"

"Past tense?" asks Damian with a grin. "Not living it up anymore then, Wales?"

"Not so much," answers Ken, still chuckling. "I've found that I'm a little old for the all night partying by now."

"Well, you will be thirty next year," I chime in helpfully, turning to him with my most innocent smile.

In response, Ken taps my nose once. "I can live vicariously through you," he points out, before adding, louder, "Rilla has a group of friends that make sure she doesn't miss any Oxford traditions. They took her to cheese floor tonight."

"Oh God!" groans Mark. Turning to me, he asks, "Was it awful?"

"Terrible," I answer brightly and toast that fact with some more wine.

"Was the cheese not good?" wonders Steve, his brows knitted into a frown.

Giggling, I shake my head. "No. No, that's not… cheese floor isn't about cheese. Not of the edible kind, anyway."

Steve looks no less confused.

"There's this nightclub, Atik, also called Park End," explains Mark. "They have a dancefloor where they play awful, terrible, cheesy pop music. That's cheese floor."

"It's horrible," agrees Ken, clearly amused.

"But cult," amends Tony with a grin and a shrug.

Mark nods. "Very cultish. Same as the bop."

"The bop?" repeats Hew questioningly.

"Bops are essentially in-house parties held in the bars of various colleges," replies Tony. "They can get quite…" He trails off, searching for the right word.

"Memorable," finishes Ken for him, the emphasis clearly indicating that he has quite a few memories of bops during his first time at Oxford.

I must remember to ask him later!

For now though, I simply tell Hew, "I don't know about other colleges, but at Oriel, bop nights usually include fancy dress. Adds to the craziness of the thing, I guess."

"You would make a beautiful Cinderella," declares Damian earnestly.

I snort. "Over my dead body! Besides, I'm more of an Arielle anyway." This, indicating my red hair. "Or a Merida. At least Merida is a character Joy can approve of."

"Who's Joy?" asks Steve, scrunching up his face is if trying to remember if he's ever encountered a Joy somewhere.

"My sister," I answer. "I corrupted her daughter with Disney movies, which Joy is not well-pleased about. She's a lawyer working with abused women and doesn't much care for most of Disney's messages."

My statement is met with a mixture of polite nods and baffled glances. Clearly, these men are not well-versed in all things Disney.

Watching them over the rim of my wine glass, I briefly consider elaborating, but don't get the chance to, because Ken nudges my shoulder to get my attention. Turning my head to look at him, I raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"Speaking of lawyers," he begins, "Tony is one. He has a colleague at his law firm who specialises in privacy law. Tony offered to speak to him about your parents' case."

"Would you?" I look back at Tony and smile widely. "That'd be awfully nice!"

"No problem," he assures, seeming a little uncomfortable with the attention.

Luckily for him, Steve draws the general attention to himself when he asks me, "Why do your parents need a lawyer?"

"They don't need one, specifically," I demure. "But they decided to look into sending a legal warning to some of those newspapers that basically accused my family of running the Sinaloa cartel out of our living room."

"I remember that," chimes in Hew. "Your brother got kicked out of college for smoking weed, didn't he?"

No-one at the table appears at all scandalised by that revelation (I even spy Damian nodding in sympathy), but I shake my head anyway. "He wasn't kicked out," I correct. "I mean, I will neither confirm nor deny any pot-smoking that he might have participated in, but he left college out of his own free will and despite what the papers are trying to instigate, he was never officially found to own or consume any drugs."

"Why draft in lawyers then?" Mark wants to know. "Wouldn't it just be easier to let it slide?"

"For Shirley, sure," I agree. "He has since move to California and is working to release his first app. I don't understand much of what is going on there, but people seem to be willing to invest in his work and they don't appear spooked by any allegation of drug use either."

"They're probably high as well," mutters Damian. When he notices me having noticed, he winks at me.

"Maybe." I shrug. "As it is, it's a non-issue for Shirley, but it's a little stickier for my parents. My dad is a surgeon and my mum both a college professor and a children's book author. Allegations of drug use, either against them or their children, don't go down too well in their fields of work."

Steve nods slowly. "And that's why they need lawyers."

"I don't think they intend to sue, but if they can get a retraction printed, that might help quieten down the whispers," I explain.

"We'll look into it," promises Tony and I bestow a smile of thanks on him.

Before I can add anything else, the old-fashioned grandfather clock over in the reception area chimes, drawing my attention. One strike, then another.

"Is it already two AM?" I ask, dismayed, and grab Ken's arm to look at his watch. It does, indeed, confirm it to be two o'clock.

"Bedtime?" asks Ken, dropping a kiss on my shoulder.

"Unfortunately so," I confirm with a sigh. Turning to the others, I explain, "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you now. I have an appointment with Dr Gecko, my thesis supervisor, early tomorrow. He's super nice – I mean, he comes to classes dressed as an actual gecko in a waistcoat every Halloween and has his students call him Prof Gecko just for that day – but he is a vexingly early riser."

Mark nods understandingly. "We can't have you falling asleep while meeting with your supervisor."

No. That would be awkward.

"Even so, you must know that we won't allow Wales to hide you away again," Damian informs me with a charming smile. "Not now that we know you."

"It's up to her," remarks Ken easily. "If she truly wants to see you again, she can."

Steve perks up at this. "Hewie and I have plans to meet at that new private club on Hertford Street next Saturday. You should all come!"

Next Saturday? Isn't that…

This time, I do turn to Ken for help. I have no way to articulate my concern, but luckily, he understands anyway. Smiling reassuringly at me, he then smoothly tells his friends, "We have plans that day."

We do have plans, though probably not of the kind his friends think. Saturday is the first anniversary of Mrs Weisz's death and Ken suggested spending the day by reading cheesy romance novels and eating rich Hungarian food. I can't think of a better way to honour her and I know she would agree.

"Another time then?" asks Steve, looking a little deflated.

"Another time," I promise and mean it.

Chugging the remaining wine, I stand up. As I do, I lay a hand on Ken's shoulder to indicate for him to stay put. Tony and Mark, too, make attempts at getting up, but I quickly shake my head and they sit back down.

I take my leave from the men to a chorus of "good night", then lean down to give Ken a light kiss, wrinkling my nose when I taste the whiskey on his lips. With a final wave, I turn towards the stairs, leaving the men to their questionable choice of booze.

Walking up the stairs, I almost trip over George, who sits on a step halfway up and stares at me accusingly.

'There are strangers in this house!' his eyes seem to say. 'In my house! Galumphing strangers who are strange and who galumph! I do not approve of this! I do not approve of this at all! He let them in without asking me and you were not there to protect me! You were gone and I was all alone with the galumphing strangers!'

"Sorry, Georgie," I apologise, laughing, and pick him up. He puts a paw on my chest to guarantee a modicum of personal space and stares at me some more. He does not appear convinced about my apology.

"I am sorry," I insist as I continue to walk up the stairs, George securely in my arms. "I promise we won't invite them again without telling you first. And I know you don't like them being here, but I liked meeting them. And all things considered, it went rather well, don't you think?"

But George just gives me his haughtiest glare and wiggles free of my hold, clearly not yet ready to forgive me for this grave transgression of allowing galumphing strangers into the house. I imagine I'll have to spend a day or two grovelling before I can gain his forgiveness. Very likely, I will also spend quite a few pounds on more than one package of Dreamies. (George always claims he can't be bought, but he's secretly not opposed to a little Dreamies-bribery happening.)

Still. No matter what the cat says, I really do think it went rather well, all things considered.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?' (written by Peter Sarstedt, released by him in 1969)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _It_ will _happen. Scout's honour! ;) Just give it another ten chapters or so. (Which, given the length of this story, could be seen as "just around the corner"!)_  
 _You're exactly right about Owen. He genuinely likes Rilla and enjoys her company, but he's also trying to get closer to Ken through her. I don't think these things are mutually exclusive. "Multitasking" is a good way of putting it, actually. He's not insincere in how he treats Rilla, but as you said, she's much better about letting him in and forging a connection, so there's some hope that maybe that connection can be extended to include Ken as well. So far, Ken has proved stubborn about not accompanying her to Windsor, but I do think Owen hopes that maybe one day, she will bring him along and that this will give him a chance to talk to Ken about matters that are not "business". Also, of course, Rilla talks about Owen in a positive way, so there's hope it might sway Ken towards being more lenient where his father is concerned. All of which is to say that you're not reading too much into this at all. In fact, you're reading it entirely right!  
I had fun with the friends! In fact, after a couple of more recalcitrant chapters, the last one was super easy to write. It all came together so nicely and the friends blended well and, of course, I had fun with the food on offer ;).  
_

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Dev would certainly think it not wrong at all! In fact, I'm sure he'd be delighted at having found a partner in crime ;)._


	55. Did you think I'd crumble?

_Oxford, England  
June 2013_

 **Did you think I'd crumble?**

Scrunching up my nose in distaste, I drop the textbook on my folded legs and give it a glare for good measure. This isn't fun at all, no matter what Josh says. And I _really_ don't understand why they make us write an exam in June when the corresponding course took place last autumn. Who even remembers anything they learned last autumn?

Giving up studying as a bad job, I allow my gaze to travel. As usual, it is almost automatically drawn to Ken who is lying next to me. Truly, some people can sleep through anything. My bedside light doesn't seem to bother him at all, nor is he woken when I huff in annoyance both at the Sociological Analysis textbook and at him sleeping through my time of need.

It's really unfair, how he just falls asleep at will, no matter what is happening around him. He just decides that it's time to sleep, lies down, closes his eyes and like that, he's dead to the world. I need to cause quite the ruckus if I 'accidentally' want to wake him before morning. (Which, yes, I have totally done. But no telling him that, please!)

Shoving the book to the side (and hearing it fall to the floor with a thud), I uncross my legs and slide downwards from my sitting position until I'm lying beside Ken, head propped up on one hand. He does, I decide, look very peaceful like this. When awake, his features are normally animated, expressing thoughts and emotions, or else, stiff and controlled when he's trying to hide what he feels. Now though, they're perfectly calm and relaxed. (It feels a bit _Twilight_ -y, to be watching him sleep, but in my defence, at least I didn't break into the house to do it. And I don't sparkle in sunlight, which surely ought to count in my favour.)

Carefully raising my free hand, I gently touch the tip of my index finger to his face, tracing the soft laughter lines by his eyes and the more pronounced line of worry between his brows.

"Now I know what the cat feels like."

Startled, I draw back. Ken is looking at me now, awake and alert, his previously calm face now schooled into an expression of mirth.

"You're awake!" I scold, trying to cover my surprise at this turn of events.

"I am," confirms Ken amusedly.

"But you always fall asleep the moment you want to fall asleep!" I argue. "How can you still be awake?"

"I didn't want to sleep yet," he answers logically, "so I didn't."

I frown at him, making sure he can see it, even in the half-light of my bedside lamp. "And then you decided to pretend to be asleep instead?"

It's a bit of a rhetorical question.

Ken grins at me as he folds one arm behind his head. "It was fun. I could hear you huffing and puffing and plotting the murder of about half a dozen innocent people."

"Hardly innocent!" I scoff. "They're making me write not one but _two_ exams on material from past terms. That's not nice!"

"Not such a fan of Marxism anymore, are you?" teases Ken. (My second exam, of course, being Social Stratification.)

"You're certainly doing a good job convincing me of its good points," I inform him, now biting back a grin myself. "I mean, all things considered… there's something to be said for being allowed to _vote_ for your leaders…"

"You don't vote for kings," retorts Ken, sounding very relaxed indeed about this matter. (I mean, _he_ would be, right?)

I swat at him playfully. "No. _You're_ appointed in a farcical aquatic ceremony, aren't you?"

I can see his eyes light up as he realises that I correctly placed his somewhat vague quote and lobbed a very definite one right back at him.

"Besides," I continue loftily, "there's obviously just one king in this household and it is not you."

"No, obviously not," agrees Ken, grinning. "Though I can now commiserate with him."

"What about?" I ask, eyeing him warily. I may not know what he means, but I do know he means to tease me.

"About what it feels like when he's just lying there, minding his own business, catching up on much needed rest, and then you come along and start poking and probing him without permission," Ken answers, looking smug.

Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I look at him, my brain whirring in an attempt to come up with a good response. (I can't deny it, is the problem. I do, on occasion, stroke or squish George when he has not, strictly speaking, shown any desire to be stroked or squished. But it's really not my fault his paws are so squishable, is it?)

Of course, Ken knows exactly that he's got me there and his self-satisfied grin is the perfect proof of it. To wipe it right of his face, I raise an eyebrow and point out, "You're not _usually_ complaining about the poking and probing…"

I let the sentence trail off suggestively, thinking I've scored a good point, but Ken yet again has the last word. "That's an interesting theory. Want me to help you prove it?" Says it and flips us both so that I'm suddenly flat on my back with him hovering above me.

And really, what else can I do but to give him a firm poke in the ribs for such insolence?

Obviously, that leads to him tickling my sides, which leads to me trying to swat at him, which results in him grabbing both my hands and holding firm. From there on, we progress to kissing quite naturally and I _do_ think I'm making quite good case for myself and my theory when –

When suddenly, his phone rings.

Groaning, Ken rolls over and sits up, blindly feeling for his phone on the nightstand.

"Leave it be," I pout as I reach for him.

"Can't," he replies, sounding quite frustrated. (I said it was a valid theory!). "It's the PPOs."

But it's less a word than an unwilling sound with which he raises the phone to his ear, followed merely by a succession of "hmm"s. I flop back onto my pillow, waiting for the call to be over and scientific experimenting to resume. However, as one moment passes and then another, I notice his curt sounds stretching out, expressing first surprise and then… is that concern?

Sitting up and shifting closer to him, I catch Ken's eye and raise an eyebrow in question. He frowns, then puts a hand over the phone and says quietly, "Your sister."

"My sister?" I repeat, dumb-founded.

"She's downstairs," adds Ken, not looking like he understands much more than I do.

"My sister is downstairs?" I clarify, just to be sure. This is much too confusing for my brain at this late hour.

"It would appear so," confirms Ken, still frowning.

I blink at him. Then, struck by a sudden thought, I ask, "Which sister?"

Ken's frown deepens. Then, removing his hand from the phone, he asks into the microphone, "Which sister?"

Apparently, someone on the other end provides said information, because seconds later, he looks back at me and answers, "It's Nan."

Nan.

Huh.

"Well?" Though quite what I am asking, I don't even know myself. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that apparently, Nan is here, in the middle of the night, without any forewarning.

(This cannot be good, right?)

"Well," echoes Ken. A moment passes, before he speaks into the phone again, "Send her in."

Which, all things considered, sounds like a sensible course of action and one I definitely approve of.

He cuts the call and for a few seconds, we remain sitting on the bed, looking at each other, both trying to make heads or tails of this. Finally, Ken suggests, "Better go downstairs."

"Yes," I agree. "Let's."

Climbing out of bed, I adjust my nightshirt and reach for a cardigan to put on over it. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ken pull on a t-shirt. When our gazes meet, he inclines his head towards the door and I nod slightly, so he reaches out to take my hand and we go downstairs, to try and find out what my sister is doing here, _now_.

One look at her standing on the doorstep confirms without a doubt that no, this cannot be good. Not good at all.

See, the thing is, Di might be the most fashion-conscious of us sisters, but the rest of us care as well, with the possible exception of Joy (whose work with disadvantaged women is surely worthy and fulfilling, but didn't do much good for her wardrobe). Nan _certainly_ cares, so for her to be looking like she does now, something has to be the matter.

Her face is pale and her eyes both puffy and shadow-rimmed. Her hair is damp and stringy, as if she got caught in a downpour at some point. She has the sleeves of her rumpled sweater pulled over her fists and I can't help wondering if she lost her jacket along the way or if she never wore one at all. She has no luggage, except for the handbag haphazardly slung over one shoulder.

When she raises her eyes from the doormat to look at me, she tries to smile, but fails miserably. "Hello." She swallows, as if the word doesn't quite want to come out right.

"Nan," I murmur, not quite sure what to say.

Luckily, Ken is quicker to assess the situation. "Why don't you come inside, Nan?" he invites, nudging me slightly to get me to make space for her to pass. As she does, I instinctively reach out to give her a hug, which she returns for a moment. Over her shoulder, I see Ken nod at a PPO standing outside, before firmly closing the door.

Taking a step back but keeping my hands on her upper arms, I survey my sister once again. Emotions flicker over her face and I will get to the bottom them later, but for now, the prevailing sense is that she seems to be dead tired. And no wonder. It's just early evening in Canada, but she must be coming fresh off a transatlantic flight and I can only guess at what happened to drain her emotionally.

"Come on." Making a quick decision, I take her hand and tug her towards the stairs. She follows willingly, almost passively. Ken hangs back and as we pass him, I exchange a short but meaningful look with him.

Leading Nan into the back bedroom, I deposit her on the bed with the promise to be back in a minute, before popping over to our bedroom to get some fresh clothes for her. My first instinct is to grab some pyjamas, given the late hour, but on second thought, I select a pair of sweatpants and a soft cotton t-shirt instead. With Ken around, she might feel more comfortable in these.

Returning to the back bedroom, I find Nan still sitting on the bed, staring off into space.

"There's a bathroom next door, if you want to take a shower or freshen up a bit," I offer, holding the clothes out for her to take. Right now, my first instinct is to make her comfortable and get her into bed. Then, if she wants to talk, we can do that.

Nan blinks at me, as if resurfacing from a deep thought. It takes a moment for her to nod and accept the clothing. "Shower would be good," she agrees, though her voice sounds strangely flat.

I point her to the guest bathroom, quickly fetching a fresh towel and a bottle of shampoo and depositing them next to the shower while Nan undresses with slow, mechanical movements. After wrangling the rather temperamental shower for her, I leave her to it, instead busying myself with preparing the back bedroom and getting some sheets on the bed.

I've just finished putting a cover on the pillow, when I hear someone behind me. Expecting Nan, I take a deep breath before turning, but it's just Ken, holding a tray with a teapot and two mugs.

"How is she?" he asks quietly, setting down the tray on a chest of drawers.

I shrug, feeling more than a little helpless. "I don't know. She's not exactly talking."

"Give her some time," he replies, not unwisely. "If she wants to talk about it, she will."

"Probably," I agree, unconsciously wringing my hands.

Leaning forward, Ken gently kisses my forehead. "I'll be downstairs. Call if there's anything I can do."

"I will." I nod. "Thanks."

He turns to leave and it's not too much later that the bathroom door opens, revealing a freshly showered Nan dressed in my clothes.

"This feels better," she tells me. "Thank you."

"Anytime," I'm quick to assure her. "Do you, um… want to sleep?"

But Nan doesn't appear to hear me. Instead, her eyes are fixed on the tray Ken brought up. Following her gaze, I explain, "Ken made tea. Do you want some?"

"He made tea," she repeats, voice sounding decidedly odd.

Um… he did?

"If you don't want tea, that's alright. I can take it back downstairs. If you'd rather have coffee, Ken has this futuristic coffeemaker that makes every possible hot drink under the sun. Except for chai latte, I think. You don't want chai latte, do you? We could get some from the shop if you do. I'd have to ask Ken." I'm blabbing, but find that I'm unable to stop myself. Something about her behaviour is deeply unsettling me and her fixation on the tea is the least of it.

My monologue doesn't even appear to register with Nan though. "He made tea," she repeats again and if I wasn't worried before, I certainly am now.

"Yes, tea," I confirm, taking a cautious step closer to her. "You don't have to drink it. He just meant well. It's the Englishness in him. Tea is their answer to every possible problem under the sun. I'm sure that if the Mayans had been right and the world had really ended last December, the English would have reacted by drinking tea while everyone else panicked."

Not that that information is in any way interesting or relevant to her, but since _she_ isn't talking, I feel a compulsory need to fill the silence with, well, _something_.

Nan reaches out and briefly lets her fingertips graze the handle of the teapot. Then she turns to look at me. "That's so sweet of him. To make tea for you."

Part of me wants to clarify that the tea is actually for her, but the bigger part finally feels like it's cottoning on what the problem is here. The tea is but a symbol and if my boyfriend making tea for me inspired such a reaction, it points me directly into the direction of the culprit of Nan's strange behaviour.

(I'm going to _murder_ him.)

"Yes, it's rather nice of him," I confirm, meaning Ken. Then, deftly holding up the bedding, I ask, "Do you want to get in? It's getting rather chilly."

That, of course, is a lie. It's not chilly at all. It's June and in June, even English weather is mostly agreeable. But if it gets her into bed, a little lie won't hurt anyone.

Nan, at any rate, doesn't seem inclined to contradict me, instead getting into bed and letting me tuck the blanket in around her. I just want to ask whether she wants to rest, when she grasps my hand and looks at me from below, her expression indecipherable. "Stay with me for a bit?"

"Sure," I reply and move to dim the light before slipping into the bed beside her.

If I thought that this would get her talking, however, I was clearly mistaken. Instead, it is me finally asking cautiously, "Nan… why are you here?"

"Oh." She sounds almost surprised by the question. "Why, this was the furthest place I could go to, of course." She makes it sound like it should have been obvious when in fact, it raises more questions than it answers.

"I was at the airport and thought about where to go. New York was out of the question for obvious reasons and Winnipeg and Halifax didn't feel far away enough," she adds after a moment.

Not that it clears up much either.

"And… _why_ did you need to go far away?" I enquire, trying to phrase my question carefully.

(I have an _idea_ , of course. A pretty good idea, even. But I'm still hoping it'll turn out to be something else. _Anything_ else.)

"Because of Jerry," answers Nan and though she says it very matter-of-factly, I can hear her voice wobble slightly.

I look at her from the side, her profile contrasting against the half-dark in the room. I try to think of a way to say this gently, but the only thing I can come up with is, "What did he do?"

"What he _did_?" repeats Nan, the tone of her voice several notes too high. "Slept with his colleague, that's what. Bloody Candice with her bloody extensions and her bloody irritating laugh."

Bastard.

"Bastard."

"You can say that again," agrees Nan darkly.

"Bastard."

At least that draws a shaky laugh from her.

I'm almost afraid to ask for details, but now that she's started talking it seems to have loosened something in Nan. "He was on a business trip to New York this week. I'm done with exams, so I suggested I could come with him and meet with Joy and her family. He didn't say no outright, but he was vague about it until it was too late for me to go. That should have been a warning, but that's hindsight for you."

(At least that explains why New York was out of the question for obvious reasons.)

Nan's mouth twists into a mirthless smile, but she's not done talking. "Naïve, stupid me didn't think much of it though. I just wished him a successful trip and waved him off. He was scheduled to come home tonight, so I called this morning – was it really just this morning? – to ask when I could expect him and what he wanted for dinner. Three guesses who answered the phone?"

Bloody Candice.

"Bloody Candice," continues Nan, answering her own question. "Chirped at me that Jerry was in the shower and could she take a message for him?"

" _That_ –" I break off, all the names I have for the unknown Candice burning on my tongue.

"Precisely." Nan nods curtly. "I didn't even have a good retort. _Now_ , I know so many things I should have said, but when we talked, it was blank. I just told her to ask Jerry to call me back. I think I even wished her a good day!"

Somehow, that seems to vex her especially.

"Did he call back?" I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from bloody Candice.

"You bet he did," confirms Nan, suddenly sounding bitter. "He had all kinds of explanations and excuses. About how it didn't mean anything and that it had just _happened_. How, I ask you, do these things just _happen_?"

"They don't," I answer quietly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as I remember that when _I_ was in this situation, I wasn't Nan. I was Jerry.

"They don't," repeats Nan, almost spitting out the words. "I told him so, of course. Do you want to know what he said? He told me that he had been feeling stressed by the wedding preparations and the pressure that came with marriage and that _Candice_ didn't expect anything from him."

Bloody bastard.

"He's wrong, of course," asserts Nan. "Her kind always has expectations. They just don't reveal them right away."

"Not that it changes anything anyway," I remark.

"It doesn't," agrees Nan curtly. "I told him that, too. I also might have said a few things about how he is obviously unable to commit to a serious relationship and whether he thinks his mother abandoning him played a role in turning him into a commitment phobic."

Ouch.

But then, it's fully within her rights and it's not like he didn't deserve anything she threw at him.

"When I said that, he became very chilly and even dared to tell me that I was being overexcited and that we would talk about it when he got home. Can you _believe_ the nerve?" Her voice rises progressively as she speaks, threatening to crack at the end.

"Bastard." Because really, what else I there to say?

"He _is_ , isn't he?" Surprisingly, the thought seems to fill her with grim satisfaction. "Of course, I wasn't likely to sit around and wait for him to actually appear home after that. I grabbed my passport, took a cab to Pearson and …" She trails off.

"England was the furthest place to go," I finish for her. We've come full circle.

Truth to be told, I'm a little surprised she came here. Not because Di or Mum would have been the more obvious choices – it's not like Winnipeg and Halifax are right around the corner from Toronto either – but because, well… that their wedding preparations were as stressful as they were is partly my fault, isn't it? Even if I never intended it.

"Do you think…" I begin cautiously. "Do you think that… I mean, I know that the press has been following you around quite a bit and I can't help wonder…"

"Whether that played a part?" asks Nan. If I expected her to get angry or emotional, I was mistaken. She sounds very composed, almost conversational. "I considered that, actually. Jerry detests those reporters. There was even a point during the flight when I was ready to blame it all on them – and on you. I was quite angry. If that plane had landed two hours earlier, I might have gotten on a return flight straight away."

I swallow. I was afraid of that.

"What changed your mind?" I want to know – or don't want to know. I'm not entirely sure.

"He doesn't get to have it that easy," answers Nan grimly. "This isn't about the wedding preparations or about the reporters or even about bloody Candice. It's not even about Cecilia running away to play flower child in a commune. This is about him and his betrayal and he doesn't get to brush that aside with stupid excuses. I'm not making it that easy for him."

There's something determined about her now, something almost fierce that I can't help be impressed by. "That is… I think that's a good mind-set to be in," I tell her, meaning every word.

"Oh, you should have seen me during the flight," demurs Nan. "I was bawling my eyes out for half of it. At some point, I decided to be angry though and that helps. I like being angry. It's easier than being sad."

Truer words were rarely ever spoken.

Nan lapses into silence, staring at the ceiling with a frown, her mouth set in a determined line. She's always been terrifying when angry and now is no exception. It makes _me_ feel a little timid around her and I'd feel pity for Jerry if he didn't deserve all her wrath and then some. (I imagine Di won't feel very kindly towards him either once she learns of this.)

Two or three minutes pass without Nan offering anything more. "And… what now?" I finally ask, unsure what else to say.

My sister turns to look at me. "Now I'm going to let you sleep," she decides, "and I will try the same. It must be past midnight."

"Are you sure? I can stay, if you want," I offer quickly. "Or is there anything else you need?"

"A voodoo doll would be nice," retorts Nan with a wry smile. "But it can wait until tomorrow."

Well.

Well, then.

"A voodoo doll. Noted." I nod. "And for tonight, I have something else that might… not _help_ , per se, but not not help either."

Under Nan's gaze, I slip from the bed and leave the room, only to return moments later, my arms laden with Mrs Lynde's apple leaf quilt. "For comfort," I explain.

"Of course," agrees Nan. "Thank you." For a moment, I think her eyes are a bit teary, but then she blinks and the look of determination is back.

I carefully spread the quilt out over her. The very second it's in place, George, who must have followed me inside, jumps on top of it. Without any fuss or hesitation, he curls himself into a cat donut, settles his head on his paws and closes his eyes.

"Is this alright?" I ask, my eyes finding Nan's.

She nods. "He'll look after me tonight. Won't you, boy?"

If George disagrees, he doesn't voice it, so I lean forward to drop a kiss on Nan's head, mostly because I can hardly wish her a good night, can I? She replies with a lop-sided smile and a squeeze of my hand, before settling back into the pillows.

Truth to be told, I'm not fully convinced that it's a good idea to leave her alone, but she _does_ have George and anyway, it would be even worse not to respect her wishes. So, despite the nagging feeling, I simply pick up the tray with the now cold tea, switch off the light and close the door behind me.

Quietly, I go downstairs and deposit the tray in the kitchen. As I walk back through the hall, I can see light coming from the living room, so make my way there. Opening the door, I find Ken sitting on the sofa, reading. When he sees me, he sets the book aside and holds out his arms for me. I quickly walk over to sit next to him, drawing my legs under me. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses my forehead.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers.

I sigh. "He cheated on her."

Ken curses softly. I can't say I disagree.

"And now?" he asks after a moment.

I shrug. "I don't know. He made excuses, but how much they're worth, I have no idea. She's hurt and she's angry. I don't know whether she can forgive him. I don't think she knows herself. Besides…" I trail off.

"Besides?" prompts Ken, rubbing my arm in encouragement.

"Besides," I begin, then hesitate. I hate talking about this. "Besides, when I slept with that guy in Mexico despite still being with Eric… look, I could blame it on the surroundings or on the alcohol or on the fact that Eric and I weren't that serious anyway, but the cold hard truth is that I did it because I wanted out of the relationship and was too afraid to tell him. So I did something so awful and hurtful that I knew he'd have no choice but to end it."

Several seconds pass in silence and I know for a fact that Ken doesn't enjoy talking about it much more than I do. Finally, he asks, "And you think Jerry did it because he wants out of the relationship as well?"

"I don't know. I really don't know him all that well. I'm just thinking –" I pause, marshalling my thoughts. "I'm just thinking that if it's the case, it doesn't matter what Nan thinks, does it?" Just like it didn't matter what Eric thought either. I made that choice for both of us.

"No, probably not," agrees Ken with a sigh.

We lapse into silence for a moment, his fingers absent-mindedly drawing circles on my arm. Suddenly, the movement stops and he remarks, "Tell your parents to contact Tony's colleague again. This is exactly the kind of story that the press loves. I imagine they could do with a friendly reminder that Nan and Jerry are private individuals and their lives are none of anyone's business."

"Good idea." I hate that this is necessary, but I know enough to recognise it as a sensible suggestion. The last thing Nan needs is to have this splashed all over the yellow press.

Ken nods, his fingers resuming their slow movements. I cuddle closer to him, leaning my head against his shoulder. The room is silent, except for the ticking of the old grandfather clock. I wonder what time it is?

"We should probably go to bed," I observe.

"We should," acknowledges Ken.

But neither of us moves.

Instead, the minutes slowly continue ticking by and I feel myself starting to doze off. It's only when Ken leans down to kiss the top of my head that I startle awake again.

"Promise me something?" he asks, face pressed into my hair.

"Uh-huh," I agree, still drowsy.

I can hear him swallow, as his arm tightens around me. "Whenever you find yourself wanting out of _this_ relationship… promise to tell me?"

And just like that, I'm wide-awake.

Thoughts rumble through my mind, half-formed questions and half-true reassurance muddling together to form a melee of things I can't seem to grasp at. I try to keep hold of them, to form them into anything resembling an answer, but they slip right past me.

In the end, the only thing I can do is curl myself as close to him as possible and murmur, "Promise."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'I Will Survive' (written by_ _Freddie Perren and Dino Fekaris, released by Gloria Gaynor in 1978_ _)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:  
These two chapters do form a bit of a set, focusing on Rilla's and on Ken's friends, respectively, so they lend themselves to being looked at together, I think. We already knew that Rilla's friends were nice, and I hope to have shown that Ken's are, too :). As you said, he needs people in his life that he can rely on and relax around, despite his status, and these people provide that. They've been a part of his life for such a long time that he can trust them blindly and unreservedly. And yes, Steve is absolutely still Mr Bingley-like! Also a bit like a puppy, don't you think? ;)  
I think at this point, Owen and Ken's interaction is mostly professional. They work well as a "king and his successor"-team and their relationship is polite and respectful, but they aren't emotionally close and Ken wouldn't confide in his father or call him just to chat. That was why, when he saw Ken's number pop up, Owen assumed there was a reason for him to call and obviously, there that reason could easily have been a bad one. So, that's where their relationship currently stands - but it won't always. We'll see them working on it before long. _

_To JoAnna:  
I think _these _particular people always were nice and likeable. Rilla actually met them at the Engagement Party of Doom, but by the time she was introduced to them after dinner, she was unable to actually give them attention, so they didn't really register with her. They were also among the people Ken actually wanted her to meet before Vera and her Harpies happened, so he wasn't so very foolish in bringing her there. He just didn't appreciate the impact someone like Vera could have long before he would have the chance to introduce Rilla to his real friends. But as you said, if she had ignored Vera and focused on the other people present, the party might not have been so awful at all - and she would have seen sooner that not all genteel people in Ken's circle are horrible by default. No-one's fault (except Vera's), but it was really all circumstances working against them there.  
It _always _has to get worse before it gets better! (Not necessarily between Ken and Owen, but there needs to be a catalyst for change and that isn't going to be something good.) That's what makes the story fun ;).  
_

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _You make me laugh ;). Have you and your phone since reconciled?_  
 _I'm not a great fan of nightclubs either (I much prefer dinner or drinks with friends to the dancing and the music), but if I had to go clubbing, something like cheese floor would be the preferable variant. I mean, it soundly gloriously bad, doesn't it?  
Well caught on the Mark/Matt thing! Thank you! It was rectified promptly._


	56. Here's to the future

_Oxford, England  
August 2013_

 **Here's to the future **

"It is so good to be here again," sighs Mum and looks around in rapture. "No matter how long you have been gone, Oxford always welcomes you back."

"And here I was, thinking that there are places more welcoming and inclusive than this one," remarks Dad drily and winks at me. I bite back a smile.

"That wasn't what I meant at all and you know it, Gilbert!" chides Mum. "I meant that regardless of how many years have passed, you always recognise Oxford for what it is and it recognises you back. It's an unchanging oasis in an ever changing world."

"Some people might argue that's exactly the problem," Dad points out. There's a twinkle in his eyes, telling me he's enjoying this far too much.

"Oh, you're incorrigible!" declares Mum with a huff and turns on her heel. But I know that she, too, is enjoying their banter.

Dad is not to be deterred anyway. He simply reaches out to grab her around the waist and twirl her towards him. Laughing, Mum drapes her arms around his neck.

(Parents, I'm telling you.)

To my right, I hear a familiar click and am not at all surprised to see a photographer standing there. It's one of the regulars and when he sees me looking, he grins at me over his camera and nods at my parents. By the time he has the camera raised again, I have already turned away.

In the meantime, my parents have thankfully realised that they're not teenagers anymore and detached themselves from each other. It's a relief and I even decide to do them a solid and overlook the handholding. (I might move them to the basement bedroom tonight though. The back room is pretty close to ours and I'm not sure those walls are all that soundproof.)

"Are you done there?" I ask them laconically and raise both eyebrows, trying my utmost to keep a straight face.

"We are," confirms Dad easily, raising their interlocked hands to place a kiss on the back of Mum's. She smiles up at him.

(Seriously! One short trip overseas and it's like they're back on honeymoon!)

We start walking again and to my relief, Mum seems to decide she isn't yet done with rhapsodising about Oxford, so she goes back to reverently looking at our surroundings. She keeps her hand interlocked with Dad's, but, let's face it, not even Dad can compete with the city of spires and scholars. It never was a fair competition.

"Just think of the history that was made here," Mum muses aloud as we walk along Broad Street. "Oh, and the great literary texts that were written in this town over the course of centuries!" It's apparent that mentally, she's quoting at least half of them.

"And the great scientific achievements, too" adds Dad, clearly warming to the subject. "We owe much medical advancement to researchers of Oxford University."

"All of them old white males, no doubt," I remark pointedly.

Dad smiles. "Not all of them," he amends. "There was Dorothy Hodgkin, for example."

I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember if I've ever heard of her before. Dorothy is undoubtedly a female name, I've got to hand him that. Other than that though…

"Does she have anything to do with Hodgkin's disease?" enquires Mum, briefly surfacing from her internal recitation of the Great Literary Works of Oxford.

(For what it's worth, Hodgkin's disease _does_ ring a faint bell, I think. If I remember correctly, it's not exactly something you want to have named for you though.)

"That was Thomas Hodgkin," corrects Dad. "He was the first one to describe the disease in the 19th century."

"Any relation?" I want to know, as we briefly stop to let a large group of students and parents pass. (I've found that on any graduation day, Oxford is invariably full of people.)

"I'm not entirely sure," admits Dad.

Huh. Boring.

"You will like Dorothy Hodgkin though," he continues while we resume walking. "She won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1964."

"Chemistry?" I repeat. "Weren't we talking about medical achievements?"

"We were," confirms Dad. "Dorothy Hodgkin was a chemist, but her advancement of the technique of X-ray crystallography was of great importance to medicine. Her work made it possible to determine the three-dimensional structures of molecules and thus confirm the structure of medication like penicillin and insulin."

Uh-huh.

I nod, but truth to be told, this is all pretty much going over my head. I'm not the right kid to be talking at about molecules and X-rays. Doesn't he have Jem and Di for that exact purpose?

"If her work was so important for medical research, why didn't they give her the Nobel Prize in Medicine?" enquires Mum, briefly taking her eyes off the outer buildings of Balliol College to look at Dad.

"I would imagine that it was because at the end of the day, she _was_ a chemist," ponders Dad. "In 1964 the Nobel Prize in Medicine was given to two Germans for their work revolving around cholesterol."

Oh! I've heard of that one!

"So, _they_ were the ones telling us to stop eating eggs or we'll all die?" I want to know, raising both eyebrows as high as they will go.

"They certainly would have frowned at the excellent breakfast we had this morning," replies Dad with a grin and a fond pat of his stomach.

I roll my eyes at him, but can't help a smile. "Just be sure not to tell that to Ken."

Because it was Ken who cooked my parents a whole fry up, just as he did for Nia and Seraphina in March. Only difference, as it turned out, was that Dad does, in fact, enjoy Blood Pudding. Who knew, right?

"My lips are sealed," promises Dad. Nudging Mum gently, he adds, "Yours, too, Anne-girl?"

Mum startles to attention. "What?" Clearly, she hasn't heard enough to be in any danger of talking to Ken about the amount of cholesterol in his fry up.

"Nothing at all," Dad assures Mum, though he can't help a conspiratorial wink in my direction.

For a moment, Mum looks bemused, but then her gaze falls on the façade of the Bodleian Library and that clearly negates any other thought or question she might have had.

"Look, Gilbert!" she exclaims.

Now it's Dad's turn to be confused. "Where?"

I point him in the right direction and remark drily, "The Bod."

Mum tuts at me. (Fittingly, 'tut' is a word originating with Shakespeare, as Owen told me when he got out a few seriously old Shakespeare prints some weeks ago.)

"Not ' _The Bod_ '! This is the grand and venerable Bodleian Library!" Mum corrects, clearly considering my lack of reverence when confronted with this majorly old book collection to be a serious character deficit, which can, obviously, not be blamed on her upbringing of me.

"The Bodleian Library," I repeat. "Of course."

Behind Mum's back, I mouth 'Bod' at Dad, making him grin, but Mum doesn't notice it anyway. She's clearly lost to the outside world. "I have so many beautiful memories of working in the Bodleian as a visiting scholar," she tells us, eyes slightly glazed over. "There is no other place like it."

I believe that. The Bod must be pretty close to Mum's idea of Heaven.

"You're so lucky to have had the opportunity of studying here," Mum states, now looking at me more alertly. "If I could go back and decide again where to get my education, I would make sure to spend at least an exchange year here, if not come here to study outright."

"It might still be possible," Dad points out (though the glint in his eyes tells me he's up to no good). "There's always a chance that you will be reborn as the child of a very rich British family, at which point getting a place at Oxford shouldn't pose a problem."

"Oh, Gilbert!" chides Mum. "You're incorrigible!"

Dad flashes her a smile. "And you do love me for it."

Ugh. Could we _not_ with the PDA again, please?

(If only because instead of one photographer, I now spy at least six. Not to mention the ever increasing gaggle of graduating students and their families, many of whom have clearly recognised me, judging from the way they stare and wave their phones in the air.)

"I'm sure she does love you," I assure Dad briskly before they can turn into teenagers again. "And since we've settled that, shall we go and collect the degree I came here to do in the first place?"

After all, it's not like studying at Oxford is all history, poems and medical discoveries. Occasionally, we do a little work here.

"Certainly," agrees Mum earnestly.

"That's what we're here for," adds Dad.

(I sometimes wonder how surreal it must be for them that out of the seven children they have, _I_ ended up being the one with an Oxford degree. It's not something any sane person would have bet money on a few years ago.)

We cross Broad Street on our way to the Sheldonian Theatre and now, finally, my parents also seem to become aware of the people – with or without cameras – watching us. There's even a press pen set up some distance away, which Mum now eyes with trepidation.

"Are you meeting Ken here?" she asks, still looking at the barriers that already contain a sizeable group of photographers and even some film teams. With Ken nowhere to be seen, they immediately focus their lenses on us.

I turn my back to the reporters while answering, "He's coming here, yes. Given that apparently, the Prince of Wales can't just graduate university without some sort of hoopla, he had to shake some hands and meet some people beforehand, but he should be here soon. Though for the actual ceremony, I've made plans to sit with my friends."

That seems to pique Dad's interest. "Dare I hope for a rift?" he asks and it's only the corners of his mouth twitching upwards that tell me he's teasing.

"Gilbert!" rebukes Mum immediately.

Dad raises both hands in defence, clearly enjoying his little act. "Don't 'Gilbert' me, Anne-girl! You know I like the man fine, but I still have a bone to pick with him for putting an ocean between me and my daughter."

I roll my eyes at him. "That wasn't him, that was my decision and mine alone," I set him straight. "It was my decision to come here and my decision to stay."

It's true, too. Ken was the one who brought it up a while ago, asking whether my trial year in England could possibly have convinced me to stay for longer, but I was the one to make the actual decision. It didn't require an awful lot of thinking either.

"Your father is aware of that," Mum assures me while glowering at Dad. He smiles back at her cheerily. (I'm almost curious what the papers will make of the pictures of this exchange, what with the reporters being too far away to actually hear it.)

"I should hope so. As far as past and current boyfriends of his daughters go, there are worse ones than Ken," I point out.

Of course, it's Jerry I'm alluding to, who has _really_ made hash out of relationship with Nan. She stayed in mine and Ken's guest room for a little over a week back in June, being generally quiet and pensive, but clearly making an effort to keep her head held high. Jerry called a few times, trying my phone when Nan wouldn't answer hers, until Ken told him politely but firmly to stop. By the time Nan left for Halifax, she hadn't shown any inclination to speak to him and according to Mum, has only contacted him briefly since then to call off the wedding. She's recuperating at Di's in Winnipeg now, with the relationship still firmly up in the air. I'm not too hopeful though, nor am I sure whether I want to actually _be_ hopeful. Sometimes, a bastard is really just a bastard and any woman better off without him.

Clearly, both Mum and Dad realise what I meant to imply, because they both sober up quickly.

"Yes, as far as boyfriends go, he's shown himself to be quite preferable," agrees Dad, now serious.

"Who has?" asks a voice I immediately recognise as Ken's, moments before his arm slips around my waist.

"Oh, you wouldn't know him," I tell him casually, even as I tilt my head to accept a brief kiss. (Behind us, I can hear the cameras clicking wildly and some photographers shouting for us to give them a better angle.)

"Of course not," Ken replies, laughing (and clearly not believing a word I say), before extending his free hand towards my parents. "Anne, Gilbert."

The formal greeting confuses me for a moment, because he just saw them this morning for breakfast. But then the cameras go _click, click, click_ again and I realise he's making a point. The pictures of him shaking my parents' hands are sure to make the papers tomorrow.

Looking at him from the side, I realise that whatever it was that he did before coming here, he must also have changed at some point during the morning. While he left home wearing a normal suit, he's now wearing proper academic dress, same as me.

As usual, Ken, with his previous Oxford degree, gets to wear what I've been told is the MA gown with a black and red hood, while I'm stuck in my vest-like, sleeveless graduate gown. (I _could_ wear my NYU one, but that's really just a purple muumuu, so I don't.) During the actual graduation ceremony, we will both change into a (sleeved!) master's gown, with appropriate silk hoods for our respective degrees – light blue and grey for my MSc, dark blue and silver for his MPP. (No, I don't really get it either. Poor Lucy spent almost an hour trying to explain it. There were sketches and graphs involved. I understood maybe half of it.)

Underneath the gown, Ken's wearing one of his fancier army uniforms, the very dark navy of it almost blending in with mandatory black of most Oxford gowns. Noticing Mum's eyes rest on the uniform, I quickly remark, "Did you know that service dress for active soldiers is one of the very few exceptions allowed by Oxford's dress code? The rest of us are stuck with _subfusc_."

" _Sub fuscus_ ," Ken completes the Latin phrase. "Oxford's version of formal dress."

" _Of a dark colour_ ," translates Dad almost automatically and both he and Mum nod in understanding.

The _subfusc_ is aptly named, too. The female version includes black shoes, a black skirt with black tights, a white blouse and a perfectly useless black velvet ribbon tied around the neck. Additionally, we carry, rather than wear, the black mortarboard, which might be an honour to have, but clearly looks ridiculous on anyone. (Ken escapes this, too, by wearing the black and red peaked cap that goes with his uniform. Not that I'd ever want to wear uniform, but it certainly _looks_ much better.)

"Last time to be wearing _subfusc_ today," Mum points out with a smile, now thankfully looking at my clothes rather than Ken's. "Are you excited?"

"Proud to have made it this far," I reply with a self-deprecating laugh. "I mean, who would have thought?"

"I did," Dad claims, which Ken backs up with a quick "Absolutely!" It's rather sweet of them, I won't deny that.

Mum reaches out to squeeze my hand. "We're very proud of you." Looking at Ken, she adds, "Both of you." (That, too, is a rather sweet thing to say.)

I expect Ken to thank her, but when I turn towards him, I find that his attention has been captured by something near the entrance of the Bod. Following his gaze, I spy a small commotion and just want to ask what's the matter, when a group of people shifts to the side and I see Owen, surrounded by his set of protection officers. (Ken's own PPOs form a loose circle around us, just far away enough not to be noticed by my parents.)

"I believe there's someone here to meet you," Ken tells my parents and inclines his head towards his father. (I briefly study his face, but while it's composed, I also see surprise there. I don't think he knew Owen would make an appearance out here.)

My parents both turn, looking distinctly confused at first – but not for long. Mum visibly blanches when she realises quite who wants to meet her. Dad takes a deep breath.

As Owen heads closer and my parents exchange a rather nervous gaze, I lean towards Ken. "Your mother?" I ask quietly.

"She's resting inside," he murmurs. "Too many people for her."

But at least she's _here_. He didn't say, but I know Ken wasn't sure whether she'd make it. If she hadn't, he surely would have been disappointed, though knowing him, he would rather have bit off his tongue than admit to it.

Owen has almost reached us, so to give my parents another moment to collect themselves, I step forward. Even as I do, I suddenly remember that I've never greeted Owen in public, nor am I totally sure _how_ to properly greet him. He's never insisted on formality before, but it might be different with all these people watching?

Thankfully, Ken seems to sense my hesitation. Briefly touching my back, he mutters, "Curtsey."

Curtsey.

Alright. I can do this. (At least I hope I can.)

Summoning all my composure, I try to remember what Tatty and Katie showed me about curtseying. Granted, it was half in jest and we were all three quite tipsy, but I _have_ done this before. I can do it again. I _can_!

Angling my right foot behind my left, I carefully bend my knees, making sure to keep my upper body straight – and all the while hoping desperately that I won't topple over. (Wouldn't the papers just _love_ it if I collapsed at the feet of the king?)

It seems to be going quite well, if I may say so myself, but when I start to rise again, I feel my legs starting to wobble. There's that split second realisation that I will either have to take an ungainly step to the side or else will simply fall over, but just when I've resigned myself to the fact, I feel Owen take both of my hands securely in his. Standing is suddenly a whole lot easier and I breathe a sigh of relief.

My predicament obviously isn't lost on Owen, since he waits for me to have both feet firmly planted on the ground before releasing my hands. When our eyes meet, he gives me the very briefest of winks and I smile back.

"Are you all set for the ceremony?" he asks kindly.

"I hope so," I answer, suddenly acutely aware of the hundreds of people – and dozens of cameras – firmly focused on me. "They actually didn't give us all that much information about it."

"Very likely to ensure that any students attend at all," remarks Owen thoughtfully. Leaning towards me slightly, he adds conspiratorially, "Don't tell anyone I said it, but it's secretly a rather boring affair."

Yes. Ken hinted at much the same thing.

"Lots of Latin, I hear," I reply – and just stop myself from grimacing. Don't want _those_ kind of pictures, after all.

Owen nods mournfully. "Quite." (Not a great Latin scholar, is he?)

Behind me, Ken quietly clears his throat. Turning my head slightly, I can see him indicate his watch.

"Ah, yes. We will have to take our seats soon," agrees Owen. "We should still have a moment left, however."

He doesn't elaborate any further and for a second, silence stretches between us. It needs Ken's fingertips briefly grazing my back to make me realise that I am meant to take over.

Right then.

"Um, okay. I'd like you to meet my parents, Dr Anne Blythe and Dr Gilbert Blythe," I introduce, taking a step to the side so I'm no longer blocking them. "Mum, Dad, this is… well, this is the King." (Is there any way to _not_ sound ridiculous while doing this?)

It occurs to me that if _I_ was unsure how to greet Owen, my poor blindsided parents must be even more out of their depth, but they rise to the occasion deftly. Mum obviously takes her cue from me – though her curtsey is decidedly less wobbly than mine – while Dad briefly looks to Ken for advice. When the latter discreetly bows his head at the neck, Dad turns back to Owen and mirrors the movement quite expertly. Truly, to all the world (and what with the reporters present this _is_ the world), my parents look like greeting a king is all in a day's work and I can't deny feeling a little proud.

"It is a true pleasure to finally meet Rilla's parents," declares Owen while shaking Mum's hand. (And as the cameras click away behind us, I wonder whether he, too, is making a point by coming out here for the meeting instead of doing this somewhere more private.)

"It's an honour, Sir," responds Mum. (Grandma Bertha, I'm sure, would be severely disappointed in her daughter.)

"It certainly is an honour for me," Owen replies. "Your books were a firm staple in the nursery when my younger two were children, Dr Blythe. Persis was especially fond of them, even though I believe their nanny found them a bit fanciful in parts."

The remark could be taken as a slight, but is saved by the way Owen delivers it – kindly, a bit jokingly. Mum, accordingly, laughs it off. "I've always been of the opinion that most people could only benefit from a little more fancy in their lives."

"A compelling argument," acknowledges Owen with a smile and inclines his head.

Turning his attention to Dad, he extends a hand and remarks, "I read your latest article in the _Journal of NeuroInterventional Surgery_ , Dr Blythe. I couldn't claim to have understood even half of it, but it sounded very impressive."

Ah, he's _good_. He's doing the thing Ken does when meeting people, only _better_. Not only is he setting Mum and Dad at ease, same as he did with me all those weeks ago during our first meeting in Windsor, he's showing genuine interest in what they're doing. It can be a surprisingly fine line to walk without succumbing to the dangers of appearing insincere, but Owen has it down pat.

Dad, for his part, appears equally surprised and pleased at hearing that his article gained another reader. (I honestly can't imagine there are that many.) "I've always wondered whether it's possible to publish a scientific paper that is comprehensible to a layperson," he tells Owen. "Unfortunately, there appears to me more than a little truth to the theory that the trust of the patient in the doctor rises diagonally with the amount of incomprehensible medical terms used by the doctor."

"Lineally," I whisper to Ken. "The rise is not diagonally but lineally." This, after all, is statistics and I've learned my fair share about those in the past year.

"Dr Gecko would be proud of you," Ken murmurs back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"He _would_ ," I insist, still keeping my voice low. (After all, he was quite pleased with my thesis in the end, wasn't he? It certainly elevated my overall grade from just 'passed' to 'passed decently'.)

Instead of replying, Ken reaches out to take my hand and squeezes it briefly. It's just as well, because our parents chose that moment to turn and look at us. Owen is talking, but I only catch the end of his sentence. "– must be very proud."

(Of me?)

"We are," confirms Dad and smiles at me. I smile back almost by instinct.

"You must proud be as well," remarks Mum, looking from Owen to Ken and back again.

For a moment, Owen hesitates, before replying in that laden tone I've heard him use before, "I always am."

At this admission, I look at Ken out of the corner of my eye, but as expected, he doesn't outwardly react to it. His expression is pleasantly neutral and he goes so far as to incline his head towards his father, but what he _really_ thinks is kept perfectly hidden. (I'm confident I could have a pretty good stab at guessing, but this is neither the time nor the place.)

"Since we haven't received our degrees yet, any pride is a little premature anyway," Ken points out smoothly, brushing right past the previous moment.

Owen immediately jumps at the proffered opportunity. "You're right. We should probably go and take our seats now. We wouldn't want the ceremony to be held up."

My first thought is that they wouldn't wait for individual people anyway, but then I realise that even Oxford would wait for _him_ , right? I bet that when you're king, no-one ever starts without you.

Either way, his suggestion is met with universal approval, causing Owen to take his leave from us. Shaking their hands, he tells my parents that he hopes to be seeing them again soon and parts from me with the words "I'll see you the next time you're in Windsor". Ken just gets a nod and a pat on the arm, but then, I suppose they haven't seen the last of each other for the day.

Owen leaving seems to set a domino effect into motion, with all the people who until now put a lot of effort into _not_ watching us (or rather, not _looking_ like they were watching us) shaken into action as well. Mum and Dad get swept up in the general movement towards the Sheldonian Theatre and Mum barely has time to throw a bemused look over her shoulder. I make sure to smile back at her, hoping to reassure her that it went well, which it did. (It's odd, to suddenly be the one reassuring my parents. I've never been that person before.)

We students (soon to be former students) move in the other direction to convene in the Divinity School before making our entrance into the Sheldonian. The Divinity School is easily one of the most ornate and most beautiful rooms in this most ornate and beautiful university, but today, I don't get a chance to marvel at it, what with the rush and the amount of people crammed inside.

Ken deposits me with my friends, taking his leave with a brief kiss and a squeeze of my hand. The moment he's moved to stand with his own classmates, Lucy asks, "You do realise this will be all over the papers tomorrow?"

"And all over the internet in less than an hour," adds Josh.

Yeah. I figured.

"Way to show support!" exclaims Dev, presumably meaning Owen and looking quite impressed.

They're not wrong. In fact, they all three seem quite chuffed on my behalf, which is sweet, but… it's all a bit much, I guess.

"Could we…" I begin, hesitating as I bring some order into my thoughts. "Could we just focus on getting our degrees today. _Please_?"

Lucy and Josh exchange a glance, then nod simultaneously. Dev throws an arm around my shoulders and declares, "Absolutely. We bloody well worked hard enough for it!"

"We've earned it," agrees Lucy and smiles at me. I smile back in relief.

"We will just be ordinary graduates today," promises Josh and I love how his statement makes me part of the group, even though only I'm the one with the odd life.

It almost works, too. The 'being ordinary graduates'-plan, I mean.

It works through lining up and marching over to the Sheldonian. It works through finding and taking our seats. It works through spying my parents on the balcony and waving at them, for Dad to capture it on his camera. (As if the world needs any more pictures of me!) It even, somehow, works through seeing Owen sit behind the vice chancellor's chair and returning the smile he gives me.

It works – until it doesn't. Because next to Owen, untouchable in a haze of purple and gold, sits the Queen, somehow managing to be even more beautiful in real life than in pictures. And she's looking straight at me.

The world seems to retreat as our eyes meet, the hustle of the Theatre fading into the background, becoming inconsequential and trite. The Queen's face is completely impassive as she looks at me (and I suddenly realise it's from her that Ken got this skill) and I couldn't possibly say how long we hold eye contact. Until finally, she inclines her head into the tiniest of nods, barely perceptible, and abruptly looks away.

Hm.

I wonder what that means.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'I Want It All' (written by_ _Brian May, released by Queen in 1989_ _)._

* * *

 **A/N:**  
 **As next Wednesday is Christmas Day and I'll also be away for a few days, the story and I will be taking one week off. I imagine everyone will be busy with festivities and family anyway, so I suspect we won't be much missed ;). Posting will resume with the New Year, that is, on January 1st. Until then, Merry Christmas to everyone and a Happy New Year!**

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Unusually for me, I haven't decided yet where I want this Nan and Jerry-thing to lead. I'm not categorically ruling out a reconciliation somewhere along the line (under the right circumstances!), but I might end up going into an entirely different direction. It's still up in the air. What I_ do _know is that Nan won't fall over and beg him to come back to her or something, because that's not like her and I don't want her to. At this point though, I'm with you in saying "we will see" ;).  
There are few things as comforting as a purring cat cuddling up to you, aren't there? Mine's the ignorant type, so she usually only comes cuddling when _she _feels like it, but whenever that falls together with me needing some comfort, it always makes me feel better. And it's scientifically proven that purring has health benefits (for the human being purred at), so that's in addition to it's emotional benefits!  
You and Ken both. He also hopes Rilla doesn't want out of that relationship..._

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Jerry cheating is part of a (long) plot arc, so unfortunately for Nan, it needed to be real. As stated, I don't know how those two will end up, but I needed Jerry's betrayal to happen to set up something else that'll happen some years into Rilla's future - and yes, her promise to Ken will come up then as well. It'll be_ all _the drama! ;)  
Once again, you capture very well what I was trying to convey with the last chapter, especially with regards to Ken. He lives with the knowledge that Rilla cheated on a former boyfriend specifically in the moment when said boyfriend wanted to move the relationship forward and make it more serious. She ran away from the pressure and the expectations, essentially, and in the worst way possible. Ken is perfectly aware that life by his side will encompass more pressure than Rilla could possibly imagine, so he must wonder about that, right? I don't think he expects her to cheat on him (though a small part probably does fear it), it's more that he worries she will bolt again when things become more serious. He's not ring-shopping yet either, but he looks more closely at their possible future, so those are definitely some of the things that are on his mind here. _


	57. No wedding day smiles

_Glen St. Mary, Canada  
September 2013_

 **No wedding day smiles **

"Are you okay there, Grandma?" I ask, quickly grabbing Grandma Bertha's arm to support her.

She shakes me off with a huff. "I am perfectly fine, Marilla."

Full name.

Uh-oh.

"I had a minor operation," Grandma Bertha continues snippily. "There is no need to make a fuss."

"But… you had a hip replacement," I point out cautiously, my hand still hovering near her elbow.

"A minor operation," insists Grandma Bertha, swatting my hand away.

Well. If she wants to have it her way…

I shrug, stuffing my hand into the pocket of my skirt. (A skirt! With pockets!) "Sure, Grandma."

"Now, don't get smart with me, young lady!" Grandma Bertha wags a finger in my face.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I reply in my most innocent voice, crossing my fingers inside the pockets (!) of my skirt.

Grandma Bertha eyes me warily, but seems to decide not to press the matter. Instead, she nods her head sharply at the garden spreading out below the Ingleside veranda. "Walk with me for a moment?"

I open my mouth automatically to ask whether walking is good for her hip, but when she gives me a warning look, I shut it with a clack of my teeth. No need to poke the beast.

She does, thankfully, accept my arm to lean on as we walk down the veranda steps to the garden. On the lawn, Izzie and Fire Lily are engaged in a rowdy game of fetch with a very excited Monday, while Jake and Bruce have climbed into adjoining maple trees. They're each equipped with a book and occasionally throw a bag of sweets from one tree to the other.

"Anne showed me the photos of your graduation," Grandma Bertha tells me. "I was sorry that I couldn't be there."

"It's fine," I assure her. "I mean, you had the –"

'The hip replacement,' I mean to say, but her look stops me dead in my tracks.

"The – the minor operation," I finish instead, mentally congratulating me for my quick save.

Grandma Bertha pats my hand. "Indeed. I'm still sorry to have missed it."

"So am I," I agree. "But I think Dad took more photos and videos than anyone could possibly want to look at, so you can live vicariously through those."

(I mean, truly. It's not like those reporters don't take enough pictures of me in all possible situations of life. They certainly have the task of visually chronicling my life well covered between the lot of them.)

"And through the newspaper reports," adds Grandma Bertha, her mind obviously having followed a similar trail of thought to mine.

"Those, too," I acknowledged. "They really didn't go away this time."

Owen's show of public support of me and my parents was much appreciated, but it also meant that the papers insisted on printing those photos again and again, from every possible angle, coupled with every possible speculation, each one more outrageous than the next. Given the glaring lack of the Queen in the pictures, they also quickly segued into wondering whether we had also met her in a more private setting and ran with that subject, too. (We did not. The tiny nod during the ceremony was the closest she came to interacting with me. After that, nothing.)

"It sells papers," explains Grandma Bertha, quite unnecessarily. "And if they have nothing true to report, they start speculating."

And boy, did they speculate! Once there was truly nothing more to write about us meeting the King and maybe-possibly meeting the Queen, they collectively turned to my future, both pertaining Ken and independent of him. As if that is anybody's business!

"If I had a penny for every false speculation about my future, I would be rich enough to live a life of perfect leisure," I remark darkly, mentally decrying both the amount of speculation and the lack of pennies. I wouldn't _mind_ a life of perfect leisure, see?

Unfortunately, with my thoughts preoccupied by false newspaper articles and the need for more pennies (pounds, rather, and lots of them), I failed to notice that I was walking right into the trap Grandma Bertha wanted me in. Because she, upon hearing me mention my future, visibly straightens and asks, "What _do_ you plan to do now? I hope you will put your degrees to good use?"

Which is _so_ not the conversation I want to be having. (When I said 'nobody's business', that, yes, also included prying grandparents.)

Still. I take a deep breath and plough on valiantly. "I have a job with a company in London. I'm starting later this month." (After all, in addition to it paying the bills, having a job is part of the requirements for me to keep my Ancestry Visa.)

"What kind of job?" Grandma Bertha wants to know. She says it pleasantly enough, but there's a little note of scepticism in her voice, telling me she doesn't quite trust me to decide on what's good for me on my own. It's par for the course for her, but I'd be lying if I claimed it wasn't also a tad annoying.

"With a party planning company," I answer, even as I know it will not meet her approval.

And sure enough, she immediately furrows her brow. "You have degrees from two prestigious universities," she points out. "Are you certain that working in party planning is equal to putting them to best use? Surely, you've outgrown waitressing by now?"

"I have," I confirm, silently telling myself to keep calm. "I'm not employed as a waitress but with the actual planning aspect. My waitressing experience will come in handy, but I expect I'll also use the economics degree. I mean, you have to juggle a lot of numbers to make everything come together within the set budget, right?"

Grandma Bertha seems to consider that. "You might have a point there," she finally acknowledges.

(Ha! Success!)

" _But_ ," she continues pointedly, "is this truly the field you see your future in?"

I shrug. "It's fine. It's a job and it's not _just_ an office job, which is a plus. It'll be fine for now."

"And what about later?" Grandma Bertha wants to know. "Where do you see yourself professionally in ten years?"

Geez. How am I supposed to know?

"I don't know yet. I just… take things as they come," I admit. Because isn't that what I've always done? And has it served me very badly so far?

"You must have a plan though," insists Grandma Bertha. "A _vision_."

Huh? A _vision_? Sounds like something one should see a psychiatrist for.

But I don't get to voice these impudent thoughts, for in that moment, Grandmother Marilla's voice rings out next to us. "Not everyone feels the need to reach soaring professional heights, Bertha. Some people find their happiness in other fields of life."

Grandma Bertha turns and narrows her eyes slightly. "These things are not mutually exclusive," she argues. "But no matter the other fields of life, it would be a shame for Rilla not to put her education to good use."

"And what would constitute 'good use' for you?" Grandmother Marilla asks, arching an eyebrow.

Okay. That's it.

I don't know what Grandma Bertha means either, but I _do_ know that I want to have no part in this discussion. I won't be the surrogate pawn they push around while arguing about their respective life set-ups. I plainly refuse!

Before Grandma Bertha has a chance to reply, I extract my arm from under hers, though not without making sure she stands securely on the grass. "I think I saw Ken over there," I lie and vaguely wave my hand in direction of the house. "I better go see if there's anything he needs."

I don't _think_ my grandmothers believe me. (And they shouldn't. I haven't seen Ken since leaving him deep in conversation with Dan and Walter fifteen minutes ago.) I don't much care either way though. I'm much too happy to escape this particular discussion and thus quickly hightail it through the garden, dodging around a leaping Monday and skipping up the veranda steps.

Once there, I am, however, stopped from entering the house by a bored-looking Shirley and a bemused Carl.

"You have to stay out here," Carl informs me, frowning.

"And why is _that_?" I ask archly. I wasn't aware those two could tell me what to do.

"Jem wants us to get everyone out into the garden," elaborates Shirley. "He has an announcement."

An _announcement_?

I raise a questioning eyebrow at Shirley, but he just shrugs. He doesn't look altogether very interested in whatever Jem has to announce, but then, he's never been the curious type. As far as Shirley is concerned, if people want him to know about their private lives, they will tell him and if they don't tell him, it's not for him to know.

Needlessly, I don't _quite_ agree with the sentiment, admirable as it otherwise is. Nor am I as placid about waiting for Jem to appear and announce what he has to announce. I want to know _now_!

Luckily, it doesn't take long for everyone to be shepherded into the garden and collected in a loose circle around Jem and Faith. While Faith appears to be mostly amused at some private joke, my brother is a ball of nervous energy, in which he very much resembles Monday. (Who is currently bouncing around our group, barely able to function from the excitement of having us all collected together. Dogs truly have no dignity.)

"Uh, thanks for coming here," Jem begins, rocking backwards on the balls of his feet as he speaks. "Faith and I want to tell you something."

Yes, spit it out, big brother. Are you getting married? _Did_ you get married? Are you having a baby? (I surely hope you don't already _have_ one!)

Briefly, Jem looks to Faith for confirmation and she smiles brightly at him. It seems to calm him enough to tell us, "As most of you know, Faith and I have been thinking about what to do now that we're fully fledged doctors. And, um, we kind of made a decision."

Jem pauses and as we wait for him to continue, I catch Joy's eye by coincidence. She raises both eyebrows and I have to agree with her. Whatever he's trying to say, Jem is _so_ bungling it.

"Yeah, and we decided that since we're still unattached –" Jem catches himself, frowning. "No, that isn't right. We aren't _unattached_. What I mean is that we wouldn't do this if it meant leaving someone important behind at home."

"Glad to know we're not considered important," quips Dad, nudging Mum in the side. She swats his hand away with a whispered, " _Gilbert_!"

"Uh," stutters Jem, clearly thrown. "I didn't mean it like that. We just thought that since we didn't have any dependants, it would be a good idea to do it now, you know? And then we thought that not having any dependants didn't have to mean that we couldn't, well, be dependent on each other. You know?"

No, actually, I don't.

"You're not making much sense, brother," Walter informs Jem, not unkindly but definitely with an amused glint in his eyes.

Jem opens his mouth, probably to start yet another attempt at explaining, but then Faith reaches out and pats his arm. "You're making a mess of this," she tells him brightly.

Turning to the rest of us, she announces, "Jem and I have been accepted to work with Doctors Without Borders in Africa. We're young and we don't have a family yet, so we figured it was now or never. But before we go, we'd like for all of you to be a part in our wedding."

See? That was nice and comprehensible. (And not at all surprising, to be honest.)

"Of course we will!" exclaims Mum, reaching out to hug Faith. "When do you want the wedding to take place?"

"Today," replies Faith matter-of-factly.

"Here," adds Jem, semi-helpfully.

Now _that_ is a surprise. I didn't know you could just get married like that.

"Don't you need a licence?" asks Jerry, voicing my thoughts – but taking an instinctive step backwards when Di just _glares_ at him. She's right, too. No-one wants _him_ to be talking about weddings.

It does remind me, however, that not only is Ken missing in this circle, so is Nan. While Faith and Jem explain that they got all necessary licences some weeks ago (meaning they planned ahead, which also explains the presence of Cecilia and Fire Lily today), I crane my neck to search the garden, both for my sister and my boyfriend.

"– of course, it depends on whether either of you will marry us," Faith finishes her explanation, looking from her father to Una.

Una smiles. "Gladly."

"It's our honour," agrees John Meredith.

It seems to be the cue for everyone to descend on the happy couple for hugs and kisses and congratulations. I, too, bestow hugs on them both, before feeling someone pull on my arm, dragging me away from the general melee. I don't have to look to know it's Di, nor am I surprised to notice Joy following on our heels.

Whether Nan told Di where to find us or whether it's a twin thing, I'm not entirely sure, but whatever it is, Di leads us straight through the garden and into the maple grove lying at its feet. It is here that we find Nan, leaning against a tree and looking up at the canopy of leaves.

"I assume they've told you?" she asks without turning her head.

"You knew?" Joy wants to know, her voice veering between surprise and indignation.

Though quite why it surprises her, I'm not sure. Jem might occasionally be clueless and Faith rash, but they're both caring. They wouldn't let Nan walk into this unprepared.

And sure enough – "Faith told me a while ago. She asked whether I was fine with their plans," replies Nan, now looking at us.

"Are you?" I ask while I watch Di walk up to her twin and put an arm around her.

Nan inclines her head, as if considering the question. "Not really. I wasn't going to tell her that though."

"You could have," opines Joy.

Nan shrugs. "Perhaps. But that would have meant allowing him to damage their happiness as well."

"Bastard," mutters Di darkly and we all three nod in agreement.

"It's a wedding. They happen all the time," Nan continues valiantly. "It's not even at all similar to… to what we had planned."

We didn't stick around to listen to Jem and Faith's plans, so I'll have to take her word for it. Though perhaps there's already enough difference in that Nan was supposed to have a big Halifax hoopla, while today's wedding promises to be spontaneous and unconventional enough to warm the heart of the bride's mother, with enough romance thrown in to please the mother of the groom.

"It's still the first Blythe/Meredith wedding, when that was supposed to have been yours," Joy points out. "Wouldn't that –?"

She doesn't get to finish her question, because Di leans forward and not-so-subtly jabs a finger between Joy's ribs. "Shut up, Joy."

Joy opens her mouth, ready to protest, but then her thoughts seem to catch up with her and all she says is, "You're right. Sorry, Nan."

Nan just waves the apology aside. "It's alright. Everything is alright."

I don't know whether she believes herself, but I do know that no-one _else_ believes her. Joy wasn't wrong, after all. Even wishing Jem and Faith all the happiness in the world, this has to sting.

"So you don't want to talk about it?" I ask, because God knows I know all about people prying your private life apart without permission.

"No," confirms Nan. "You may stay for a while though. We could talk about something else."

"Maybe about how Jem and Faith are going to Africa?" suggests Di. "I actually thought that was the more important announcement, but somehow, it got completely lost when everyone started talking about the wedding. I mean, what _is_ that Africa thing about?"

Joy nods, business-like. "I can help you there. Jem talked it through with me beforehand, so I knew about those plans for a while. They're going to Africa with Doctors Without Borders to help in a clinic they've set up there."

"Not to a war zone though, I hope," I remark, feeling an involuntary shiver run down my spine as I imagine my brother and almost-sister caught up in a war.

"No, not to a war zone," Joy assure me. "You'd have to ask Jem for more details – or better yet, ask Faith for a comprehensive answer – but from what I understood, it's about providing medical care and support for the local population."

"A worthy cause," decides Nan. "And I understand wanting to be married before they go there, so I will smile and be brave. It won't be very hard either, because I _am_ happy for them."

She seems to say this as much to convince herself as to convince us, but even as I see Di and Joy exchange a glance, neither of us contradicts Nan. It's not for us to judge, after all.

"I _am_ happy," insists Nan, "which is also why I won't keep you here any longer. They've got a wedding to prepare for tonight and I bet they're going to need every hand."

"What about you?" Di immediately wants to know.

Nan tils her chin upwards. "I will come and help as well," she promises. "I just need a little moment to myself first. _Alone_."

She's clearly very adamant about it, too, with her tone leaving little room for protest. Di looks like she considers trying anyway, so I reach out and give her a gentle nudge. "Come on. Let's go."

"Fifteen minutes, Nan" Di declares, even as she allows Joy and me to lead her away. "If you're not at the house in fifteen minutes, I will send search parties out for you!"

At least that seems to succeed in amusing Nan, because she smiles the first real-looking smile of the day, even as she shoos us off with both hands. With Di in our middle, Joy and I make for the house, though neither of us dares say a word for fear of Nan still being within earshot.

Thus, we walk in silence and we've almost reached the house, when I spot Ken standing at one side of the garden, seemingly lost in thought.

"Go ahead without me," I tell my sisters. "We'll be there in a minute."

Murmuring words of assent, they continue towards the house, while I change courses and walk up to Ken. As I come closer, I notice that not only is he deep in thought, there's something else about him. Something about his posture, his expression. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

"Hey," I greet him, briefly touching his elbow. "Where have you been? You missed something big."

Ken briefly raises his phone to indicate that he had a call. "What did I miss?" he asks, brushing a hand along my arm. But even so, he somehow still seems preoccupied by whatever is going on in his head

I open my mouth to tell him about Jem and Faith, but there's something about him that gives me pause. It's more constrained, but beneath the surface, I see the same nervous, giddy energy that was apparent in Jem earlier. Only that Ken isn't getting married. I'd know _that_.

"Oh, this and that," I reply, brushing his question aside. "What about you? What was the phone call about? Must have been important, considering how long it kept you."

"It was." Finally, Ken turns to face me fully and I see that my perception was correct. His eyes are burning with a sort of excitement I've rarely witnessed before. _Something_ is clearly afoot.

"Well?" I ask, smiling at him and trying to ignore the nagging voice whispering in my ear. (For some reason, it sounds suspiciously like Grandma Bertha.)

Ken reaches out to pull me towards him, wrapping both arms around my waist. But even as he looks at me, I'm not altogether sure he even really sees me. He seems to be caught up in his own little world of anticipation that I have no proper part in.

"It was my father on the phone," he explains anyway, proving he hasn't quite forgotten me. "He just finalised the last details with the MOD."

The… MOD?

The Ministry of Defence?

What on earth…?

"They're finally allowing me to finish my flight training!" exclaims Ken, a smile now blooming on his lips. "Remember that they pulled me for the UN internship back in 2010 before I could start operational conversion training? The prevalent opinion was that it wouldn't be worth the expense of training me on a special jet model when I wasn't ever going to available for active duty."

 _What_?

I open my mouth, but words have left me, so I just stand there, gaping like a particular foolish fish. The voice sounding like Grandma Bertha has intensified its nagging. I wish it would stop.

"They're phasing out the Tornados soon though and no-one wants to be trained on them anymore," continues Ken, oblivious to my state. "They still need a few new pilots to wrap up the program, so I volunteered and they _finally_ agreed! You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this!"

Since 2010, I presume.

I mean, I _get_ it. I know how it rankled that he was never allowed to finish his training. But… but…

But.

I clear my throat. "That's amazing! Congratulations!" It's not a lie, exactly, but I don't sound very convincing to my own ears.

Not that Ken notices. He's much too caught in his own excitement to notice the hollowness of my tone. "It'll be great! They're hammering out the last details and then I can start later this month."

Later this month? But… but…

"How long… how long…?" I try to ask, but the words float away before I can make them be heard.

"34 weeks," replies Ken, quite as if that was both obvious and not at all a cause for concern.

34 weeks.

That takes us right into… May!

 _May_!

That's nine months!

I stare at him, swallowing against the lump in my throat. Now there's only one hope left.

"And where…? I trail off.

"Oh." Ken nods. "Lossiemouth."

Yeah. Somehow, I don't think that's a secret new suburb of London.

"Northern Scotland, not too far from Inverness," adds Ken and suddenly, there's a cold, sinking feeling in my stomach.

Nine months, with him up in Scotland flying planes and me down in London organising parties. It'll be New York all over again when I had thought we were past that.

Finally, Ken also seems to notice that his great news might only be great for him. "Is this alright?" he asks, furrowing his brow. "I know we won't see each other as much while I'm training, but we did it before, didn't we? And we came out fine."

We did. But that was then and this is… now.

"It's just such a great opportunity for me. I don't regret coming to New York for obvious reasons, but this is something I've wanted for so long and if I say No now, it won't come back again," explains Ken, a note of urgency in his voice. "If I do this, I will finally be a fully trained pilot and no longer just a prince that dabbled in the military for a while before leaving for a cushy office job. Do you understand that?"

I do, is the problem. I hate that I do, but I understand him. After all, I know what it feels like to know that you don't measure up. I, too, would grasp at any opportunity to prove them all – and myself – wrong.

"I do understand it," I tell Ken and suddenly, my voice sounds so calm it's almost eerie. "I'm not a fan of the separation, but I see why you want to do this and I'm not holding you back."

His reaction is instantaneous. Tightening his arms around my waist, he lifts me off my feet for a second or two, burrowing his face in my neck. "Thank you," he breathes against my skin and I know I did the right thing. (If only it _felt_ like doing the right thing, too.)

I accept his kiss, but even as I return it, my heart isn't in it. All of a sudden, he's too close, to _there_ , and I just want to be alone. I need space, to breathe and to think and to sort my jumbled feelings.

Gently extracting myself from Ken's hold, I brush my fingertips along his cheek to show him that everything is fine. (Would that it was!)

"Would you mind going inside without me? I want to check up on Nan for a moment. Jem and Faith made an announcement earlier that upset her a bit," I tell him, hoping that the truthful parts of the statement are enough to cover the lie.

I can see understanding dawn on his face, but it relates to Nan, not to me, and I'm unsure whether to be grateful for that or not. "Of course," he assures me. "Go ahead and check up on her."

Not that I have to.

Because the moment the door to the house has shut behind Ken, Nan herself steps around a nearby tree and one look at her face tells me that she heard it all.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she remarks, though without volunteering an explanation for why she did anyway. Maybe because it freed me from having to repeat what happened.

I try anyway. I open my lips and try to find words to explain for why I wanted to say No and said Yes anyway. But Nan just shakes her head and holds out a hand for me to take. "It's okay. I get it."

Somehow, I have a feeling she does.

I take the offered hand and Nan tugs me in direction of the door. A big part of me wants to resists, doesn't want to face the happiness of a wedding, but I know that if Nan can face it, so can I.

Nan squeezes my hand and musters a smile for me. "Come on. Let's be brave together."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The River' (written by_ _Bruce Springsteen, released by him in 1981_ _)._

* * *

 **A/N:  
** **Don't worry, I'm not here to announce another hiatus ;). I just want to wish everyone a Happy New Year and all the best for 2020. Here's to the Roaring Twenties!** (Preferably without another Great Depression this time around...) **  
**

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _A tiny, little, itsby bit of Leslie ;). But we're moving closer and closer to her first proper appearance and the reveals accompanying it (of which there are many!). The chapter is already written and I can safely promise that it'll be posted this year :p._  
 _Ah, Ken has a history of not preparing Rilla properly for the situation she encounters as his girlfriends. He's at least consistent in that respect (though I admit that's the only nice thing that can be said about it). In fairness, I don't think he knew Owen would stage a public greeting, but I agree that Ken should have foreseen it as a possibility and he should have prepared not only Rilla but also Anne and Gilbert for it. If it had gone wrong (as it easily could have), that would have been on Ken, especially since he keeps making that mistakes over and over again. He's made headway in other respects, but letting Rilla run into royal-adjacent situations unprepared is a mistake he's repeated a few times by now. So, if your opinion is that he needs to do better, I'm standing right with you, nodding and agreeing whole-heartedly._  
 _I love that even though Ken messes up in the last chapter, you still feel sorry for him for other parts of his life. Ultimately, that's exactly the characters I'm trying to create - characters that have good parts and bad ones, so that they evoke feelings of exasperation and feelings of sympathy equally. (Though we'll see how sorry you feel for him after_ this _chapter...)  
As you said, he can never just relax into the relationship as it is and let it unfold, because there's always the future looming. For him, that future comes with a whole lot of expectations that will be settled nearly equally on his wife. He has other reasons for being reluctant to let his Rilla life merge with his royal life (we'll really lean into those reasons in the Leslie chapter I mentioned), but he's also aware how much it takes for any woman to actually stay with him. It's not that he doesn't trust Rilla as a person, he knows that _he _wouldn't chose that life if anyone had given him the choice, so he struggles to believe than anyone will or that anyone can love him enough to sign up for all of it. In short... yeah, his head's definitely not a fun place to be sometimes!_

 _To Mammu:  
A happy new year to you, too! And since today is Wednesday, you don't have to wait for another chapter at all. It's all set and posted (as you can see) and I hope you enjoy it (despite Ken).  
You're entirely right that they won't be any wedding bells anytime soon. Even if Ken hadn't decided to go off playing soldier, I don't think a quick wedding would have been in the cards, but of course with another separation looming, an engagement is now further than it has been for a while.  
Ken definitely knew Owen was in Oxford, but I don't think he knew Owen would come out for a public introduction. He should have guessed it was a possibility and he should have forewarned Rilla and her parents accordingly. Of course, story-wise it's more fun to have Owen materialise as a surprise though, which I admit is part of why I went with it here ;). It also fits Ken's past behaviour pattern of not preparing Rilla for the situations she's thrown into as his girlfriend, but they're all lucky in that everyone rises to the occasion and it works out for the best. The press would have had a field day if it hadn't. (No worries though. They'll get plenty of fun material soon enough!)_


	58. In these days of quiet desperation

_London, England  
October 2013_

 **In these days of quiet desperation**

With a sinking feeling, I look at next week's employee roster hanging on the notice board. If I still felt like laughing, I might have been amused at the irony of it, but any feelings of humour deserted me long ago.

Was it really just six weeks ago that I so confidently yet naively told Grandma Bertha that my new job was about so much more than waitressing? Well, the roster on the wall is a firm reminder of how well that _didn't_ work out.

Sighing, I take a step back and almost knock into a colleague whose name is Louis or Lewis or some variation thereof. (Involuntarily, I find myself thinking of the spelling confusion surrounding Ken's friend Hew and feel a sudden sense of wistfulness. It was barely six months ago that I met his old school friends, but life feels infinitely more complicated now.)

"Sorry," I murmur and duck around Louis/Lewis. He briefly nods his head to acknowledge the apology, but already has his attention directed at the notice board.

Turning around, I just mean to head back to my desk, when I hear the sound of someone tottering past the office door on impractically high heels. There's just one person insisting on wearing heels like that around the office and that person could be just the one I need to speak to.

Making a quick decision – seize the moment and all that – I slip through the door and dart along the corridor, following the _clack, clack, clack_ of the heels.

"Marcia?" I call out once I'm close enough. "Do you have a moment for me?"

Marcia is one of the owners of the party planning company I now work for. As she hears me, she hesitates, clearly caught between stopping and moving forward. For a moment, I think she might try and get away (despite her shoes _really_ not being practical for a quick escape), but then she turns towards me.

"Rilla-dear!" she exclaims. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I really must fly. Oodles to do!"

She tries to hurry on, but I manoeuvre myself between her and the corridor, effectively keeping her in place. Short of shoving me aside there's little she can do to get past me.

"I only need a moment," I insist.

With a dramatic sigh, Marcia looks at her sparkly watch. "But only a moment, darling," she part-relents. "I am expecting delivery of colour swatches for the Hunter-McClellan wedding."

"For the dining room decoration?" I ask, feeling somewhat desperate to _somehow_ get a foot into the planning side of things.

Marcia laughs her tinkling laugh. "No, silly. For the table protectors."

The… table protectors? That's the thing that goes _under_ the tablecloth, right?

Better not ask.

"The table protectors," I repeat, nodding. "Absolutely."

(Does anyone ever even _see_ them?)

"Obviously, we can't have them in the wrong colour," Marcia tells me gravely, as if the hue of the table protectors was _at least_ a question of life and death.

"No, we can't," I agree – outwardly, that is. "Totally obvious."

Let's file it away as another thing that still befuddles me about this job.

"Very good of you to see," commends Marcia and pats my cheek. I suppress the impulse to recoil. When she tries to subtly slip past me, however, I mirror her movements so that I continue to block her.

"The thing I wanted to talk about –" I begin.

But Marcia doesn't even let me finish. "Can't it wait, sweetheart?" she replies, frowning in a very put upon way. "I'm _such_ a busy woman."

"I don't doubt that," I lie. (I mean, whoever thinks that choosing the colour of the table protector constitutes an important job clearly needs their head examined!) "I really just need a moment."

I'd prefer to move this conversation to a closed office, instead of holding it out here in the corridor where everyone can hear it, but Marcia seems disinclined to do so. Instead, she sighs another dramatic sigh, lest I forget the great sacrifice I am asking from her, and asks, "What is it, sweetie?"

A quick look along the corridor reveals it to be if not deserted than at least free of obvious eavesdroppers, so I soldier on. At risk of sounding overdramatic myself, it's now or never. I've got to get this right.

"Look, I know I'm new and that certain tasks come with being the new one," I tell her cautiously. "I also realise that everyone has to pitch in in a tight spot. That goes without saying, really. It's just…" I hesitate.

"Just?" prompts Marcia, not-so-subtly peering past me.

Taking a deep breath, I continue, "I really don't mind filling in for someone when there are not enough people to cover catering between them, but… well, I started working here four weeks ago. So far, waitressing has been the only thing I've done."

In fact, there was hardly a day at all in the last four weeks I _didn't_ spend pouring drinks and juggling plates and offering tasty little nibbles. And it's _fine_ that they call on me for waitressing duties, it really is, because the occasional spot of waitressing has never hurt anyone, but to make me do it almost every evening has to be excessive, right?

"We're short on waiters, so everyone must do their part," Marcia tells me with a distinctive air of unconcernedness. It's like she doesn't even _care_. (And I don't get the feeling that "everyone" includes her and the team leaders.)

Much more pertinent though, she's not speaking the truth either. I've seen the list of the temps for waitressing jobs and some of them haven't been called in since before I started my job. I can't imagine they're _all_ of them too busy to work.

"And I understand that everyone must do what needs to be done to finish the job," I assure Marcia, making sure to keep my voice pleasant. "I absolutely do want to do my part. It's just that I was hired to do more than waitressing and it would be great if I could soon start on that aspect of the job as well."

"Oh, absolutely, you will!" claims Marcia, tapping an orange-painted fingernail against my shoulder. "Some more waitressing and then you're all set to learn the other aspects of your job."

It sounds, while not great, certainly like an improvement and I find myself nodding enthusiastically. "That'd be amazing!"

And it _would_ be – if only the nagging voice in my ear would stop wondering (loudly!) whether Marcia is speaking the truth _now_. Somehow, I'm not altogether convinced. Nor is the nagging voice.

But I know when a discussion is over and Marcia's sighs of impatience tell me that it's best to end this before I truly start annoying her. Maybe the vague promise of future improvements is all I can hope for right now.

Takin a step back, I say, "Right, well. If you do have anything I can help with, you know where to find me." Even if it's just colour swatches for table protectors – or is even _that_ too advanced a task for me?

"Absolutely, sweetie!" promises Marcia, already walking past me. "I really must fly now. Those colour swatches, you remember?"

Yes. Hard to forget, those.

Looking past Marcia as she totters along the corridor in her ridiculous heels, I find that I don't feel much better than before. I planned this conversation for days, but now that it has taken place, I'm not too hopeful that it changed anything.

Sighing, I turn to walk back to my desk. Next to the door leading to the shared office, I spy Louis/Lewis and briefly wonder how much of the conversation he heard.

He answers my unspoken question when, without even looking up from his blackberry, he informs me, "You're most valuable for them when you're visible. They can't charge a premium for you advising clients on their choice of hors d'oeuvre, but they _can_ charge a premium for you serving them."

I stop dead in my tracks. "A… a premium?" I stutter. " _What_?"

Louis/Lewis pockets the blackberry and looks up at me. "People get a kick out of being waited on by the girl sleeping with the future king. Makes them feel important," he explains, very matter-of-factly, and pushes away from the wall.

Knowing I should respond somehow, I open my mouth, but there are not words coming out. My stage of befuddlement must have shown on my face though, because as he walks past me, Louis/Lewis adds, "Better get used to it, princess. If Marcia has her way, you'll be carrying trays for a very long time."

Great.

Just bloody great.

The worst thing is that he's making perfect sense. If there truly are people out there deranged enough to pay extra for having me as a waitress, Marcia has no incentive at all to have me learn how to do the behind-the-scenes work. Much more lucrative for her and the company to push me out there as much as possible.

My first instinct is to stalk after her and tell her I'm resigning _now_. But as I sit down at my desk and stare at the dark screen of my computer, better sense is already starting to take over. I can't quit this job because I _need_ this job. Living in London (well, _near_ London) is no less expensive than living in New York was, only that now, I don't have my parents and Aunt Mary Maria bankrolling me. They wouldn't let me starve either, but to come running for help barely ten weeks after leaving university is more than my pride will allow. (Besides, the papers would have a field day if I left my first job after just a month. I can already see the headlines painting me as workshy and high maintenance.)

There's nothing else for it but to knuckle down and hope that Louis/Lewis will turn out to be wrong and that Marcia will keep her promise. (I'm not too hopeful about either thing happening.)

Thankfully, at least today's gig is a tea party, which means a) less drunk guests and b) a comparatively early night. It's only a little after 7pm when I drop off the waitress uniform at the office and make my way home. As I leave, I have to dodge the usual gaggle of photographers, who seem to think it's imperative that they chronicle my commute. Every. Single. Day.

In New York, numbers quickly dwindled when the first interest in me waned and in Oxford, they knew to keep their distance, likely facilitated by the presence of Ken and his bodyguards. Here though, I'm on my own and the British press has already proven to have all the tenacity of an angry terrier. There's no chance of _them_ growing bored with me.

With little choice but to keep my head low and ignore the calls of "Rilla! Look here, Rilla! Is it true you're secretly working at a strip club, Rilla?", I walk on and make my way to Warren Street Underground Station. The company office is in fancy Fitzrovia, but the wages they pay only allow for living on the very outskirts of London. Thus, my daily commute sees me take the Victoria line to Victoria Station, before switching to the overground trains taking me to East Croydon.

Croydon is… look, it's not a _bad_ place to live, per se, but… but moving here from pretty Oxford is certainly… an _adjustment_. Where Oxford is all spires and towers and ornate buildings, Croydon is… emphatically _not_. It has some nice corners and the town centre even has the odd pretty-looking building, but as I walk from the train station to the actual place I now call home, well… let's just say there's little about it that qualifies as 'nice'. In fact, my way home takes me past the remains of several buildings that were burned down in some riots two years ago, which… yeah.

My studio is located on the sixth floor of an apartment building that might have been modern sometime in the 1960s. As it is, it's still _functional_ , but that's about it. There's nothing welcoming or pretty about it and it's not made more charming by the pub next door, which looked quaint at first and initially delighted me by being named The King George, but then turned out to be frequented by football fans. Loud, drunk, rowdy football fans. It certainly contributes to make the apartment building a place you stay when it's all you can afford and that you leave when you have the chance.

After a year of living in our beautiful, spacious town house in Oxford, coming home to the Croydon apartment feels like a punch to the gut. Every time.

As usual, some photographers have gathered here, too, though what makes them think that pictures of me in Croydon will be any more interesting than pictures of me in Fitzrovia is anyone's guess. (Some of them even make a point to be at both places. The more darkly cynical part of me thinks it's bad manners that they never offer me a lift.) As it is, they do their usually spiel of shouting and getting in my face and I do my usual spiel of keeping my head down and pretending they're not there. It's lather, rinse, repeat, every bloody night.

Having escaped them and then dragged myself up twelve flights of stairs, I get on the job of opening the door. Since Beckett strongly vetoed the idea of Ken _ever_ coming here (he actually might have hyperventilated at the mere thought), the studio didn't get the Royal Security Treatment my old Brooklyn Shoebox received, but Hanson turned up one day after work to have a look at it and gently suggested I have someone install a proper security bolt. It was an expense I could ill-afford, but one mention to Dad took care of it. I might be paying my own way now, but safety is a non-negotiable thing to him, thankfully.

With all locks and bolts taken care of, I push open the door and step inside, making sure to re-lock everything behind me. I have only just finished when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of orange launch itself at me. Moments later, there's a sharp pain at my ankle as teeth and claws cut through my tights, but before I can react, George has already disappeared beneath the bed.

Sighing, I drop my handbag and get on my knees in front of the bed. "Georgie?"

George is at the farthest end, pressed against the wall. His ears lie flat against his head, his tail swishes in annoyance and when he sees me, he hisses loudly.

"Look, I'm sorry, Georgie," I apologise, still crouching in front of the bed. "I know you want to go outside, but it's not possible."

The lack of fire escape ladders in London means that the sixth floor apartment is far too high for him to leave through a window. There's no alternative way either as I'm unsure how my neighbours would react to a cat stalking through the hallway. Besides, one of the second floor apartments is occupied by a burly man with two heavy bulldogs that I _never_ want George to encounter. And even if that didn't rule out letting him out through the building, there's a busy street running just by it that no cat should ever attempt to cross.

Because I can't see any way to solve this, George is trapped in the not very sizable studio apartment and he shows me daily what he thinks of it.

"Do you want to play a little?" I ask him, blindly reaching for something I could offer him.

When we were still in Oxford, Dev and Josh, upon learning that I don't know when George was born, went and gave him an Unbirthday Present. Among other things, it consisted of several catnip cuddly toys in the shape of food, including a slice of pizza, _two_ different tacos, an ice cream cone as well as a waffle and a chicken wing that, inexplicably, came as a set. It's the chicken wing that I now offer to George to play with, but he just swishes his tail in indignation and hisses again, for good measure.

With a sigh, I toss the cuddly chicken wing under the bed and get up from the floor, only now shrugging off my coat and kicking my shoes into a corner. I suppose I should be putting them away orderly, but it's hard to care about keeping a place like this tidy. It's plainly depressing and no amount of housekeeping will ever change that.

Additionally, George's cuddly toys have reminded me that it's been weeks since I've last seen my friends. Lucy is away on an internship with a museum in Ireland, Josh has started his PhD studies up in St Andrews and Dev decided that he had earned a break after university and was last known to be holidaying in the Caribbean. I'm in contact with all three, just like I'm in contact with my New York friends, but just as with them, it's not the same.

And besides, they aren't the only people I haven't seen in weeks.

Rubbing my face with both hands, I let myself fall backwards on the bed, ignoring the protesting squeak it emits. The studio came furnished, which was a bonus from a financial viewpoint, but adds to the drabness of it all. My Shoebox was small, but cosy. This… isn't.

And the worst is that I even have to be grateful for having found an affordable place so close to London so quickly – and with a cat, too! The commute is a bother, being loud and crowded and smelly and always _late_ , but it's under an hour (though it's under an hour spent standing, as there are _never_ enough seats). And while the apartment is bleak and uninspiring, it has a solid roof, running water, electricity and even, on occasion, functioning heating. Rationally, I know it's something to be grateful for, but emotionally, everything within me rejects the very thought. I don't want to have to feel grateful for _this_.

George obviously agrees, for having crawled out from under the bed, he stops to look at me with utter disdain. Another hiss, before he stalks to the other end of the studio and jumps up on the windowsill, clearly intent on ignoring me.

Lovely. Even the cat hates me. (Not that I can blame him.)

I briefly consider making myself something to eat, but the thought of heated instant food isn't enticing enough to make up for the effort, so I just don't bother. Instead, I just lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling until, minutes later, my laptop calls for my attention with a loud, jingling sound.

Scrambling up from the bed, I need a moment to locate the laptop on the counter of the somewhat grimy kitchen, so by the time I've settled back down and accepted the Skype call (rescheduled from Sunday because Joy had a family outing), all my sisters are already there.

"Rilla!" chides Nan, seconds after I've logged on. "Didn't we talk about giving your place a homier feel?"

We did. Or rather, Nan did. She even emailed me decorating tips.

"Yes, I… I just didn't get around to it," I lie. Truth is, I couldn't be bothered.

"You should," insists Nan. "It'll make you feel much better to come home to a place that _is_ a home."

I don't even doubt her. She's certainly done lovely things to the Toronto studio she moved into this summer. It's almost overstuffed with, well, _stuff_ , but there's no denying it looks perfectly cosy and comfortable.

The difference is, though, that Nan has accepted that this will be her home for the foreseeable time. She still has at least four years of her PhD left, so won't be leaving Toronto anytime soon. And with her having told Jerry firmly and calmly that things are definitely over between them, she needed a new place to properly call home. Whereas I… well, I still can't shake the feeling that any attempt of turning this drab place into something nice would be acknowledging it as a non-temporary thing and I just can't face that thought. It's just… too much.

As if having read my thoughts – or rather, the thoughts I don't even allow myself to think – Di chimes in, "How is lover-boy doing, Rilla? Still off playing soldier?"

"He's still doing pilot training, yes," I confirm primly. I know most of my family members don't exactly approve of Ken's military training and that's their prerogative, but Di's glibness still rankles.

"Is he enjoying it?" Joy enquires, clearly in an attempt to keep the peace.

"He's ecstatic. Totally over the moon," I answer slowly, feeling a lump build in my throat as I speak. "Whenever we talk, he's telling me about all the things he did that day and… really, he sounds like a little boy on Christmas Day. It's… it's sweet, in a way. He's so happy doing this and I'm glad for it. He's not even bothered by the weather, which, given that he's in Northern Scotland, is quite remarkable. I don't think it has stopped raining ever since he arrived."

I try to raise a smile at this admittedly very weak joke, but look back at three identically frowning faces.

"And meanwhile, you're stuck…" begins Di, then hesitates. "Where is it that you're stuck again?"

"Croydon," replies Nan in my stead.

"Yes. _Croydon_ ," Di repeats dubiously. And even thought she doesn't _say_ it, it's clear what she's thinking.

"Look, I already told you I'm fine with him going," I insist, feeling more than a little annoyed. "He asked and I told him to do it. I mean, yes, it means we won't see each other a lot in the next few months, but what does that matter in the grand scheme of things? This is a dream of his and what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn't support that?"

Of course, it never is quite as easy as that and my sisters aren't so easily fooled.

Di opens her mouth to speak, but, probably fearing what she might say, Joy cuts right across her. "It's lovely of you to be supportive of what he's doing. No-one thinks otherwise. We're just worried that… we're worried…" She trails off, clearly unsure of how to phrase her thoughts. (Happens rarely enough.)

"We don't doubt you being a supportive girlfriend," Nan speaks up instead. "We're just wondering what kind of boyfriend it makes _him_ that he isn't really supporting _your_ dreams."

And what does it say about me that the only rebuttal I can think of is 'I don't have these big, important dreams'?

It's far too depressing a thing to say, truthful as it might be, so I just shake my head, averting my eyes from the screen for a moment. "Could we… could we just talk about something else?"

" _But_ –" Di protests and I feel my heart sink. I _really_ don't want to be having this discussion right now.

Thankfully, Joy can be relied upon. "Of course we can," she answers kindly. "Should I tell you about Izzie's latest school production and how awfully, hilariously it went wrong?"

"Yes." I nod, feeling relief washing over me. "Yes, please."

So she does. Afterwards, Nan takes over to talk about her latest research project, before Di gives in to the general pestering and recounts the date she had on Friday with a kindergarten teacher called Imogene. By the time she is done it's nearing midnight for me, so my sisters shoo me to bed, wishing me alternatively a good night and sweet dreams. (As if.)

Shutting the laptop, I only just manage to gather the energy to drag myself over into the bathroom. (Is it me or has that mouldy patch grown bigger since yesterday?) I go through the general routine of scrubbing off my make-up, brushing my teeth and changing into my night clothing, before walking over to the kitchen and setting out some food for George. (I must remember to look into what's the matter with the fridge. If its job is to keep the food cool, it's not being altogether successful at it.)

Shutting off the light, I climb into bed to try and fall asleep – but nothing. I _should_ be sleeping, because even though there's nothing to do for me at the office, they still expect me to be there every morning sharpish. But even knowing that, I can't seem to get my brain to shut down and let me sleep. I just lie there, stare at the dark room and listen to George gobbling down his food.

Reaching for the phone next to my pillow, I find myself going through this summer's photos. Oxford looks even more beautiful now that it isn't home anymore and it provides an adequate background for the various snaps showing my friends, me and Ken just going about our daily business. Then there are those from graduation day, all of us beaming with pride and exhilaration at having done it (Ha! If only I'd known!), followed by pictures taken during the fancy dinner my parents took Ken and me to in the evening. Leaving Oxford behind, I scroll through the photos from Steve and Fiona's wedding (where Ken's friends so reliably shielded me from Vera that I swear I didn't see her the entire day) and finally of our stay in Canada, culminating in the small, intimate wedding of Jem and Faith. ( _Why_ is everyone getting married all of a sudden?)

Following an impulse, I close the virtual photo album, instead selecting Ken's number and pressing 'call'. I know I shouldn't hope, because that he can't take calls spontaneously, but I still can't stop myself from wishing that maybe, just today –

"Hey. Sorry you only reached the voicemail. I'm busy right now. Please leave a message."

 _Beep._

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Everybody Has a Dream' (written by_ _Billy Joel, released by him in 1977_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Skirts with pockets are absolutely the best! There should be many more of them! (Sadly, there won't be, because it'd mean they couldn't sell as us many handbags...)  
Oh, a bit of preparation (or, you know, _a lot _) wouldn't hurt Rilla at all. She needs to figure out what she wants, because until she does, she has nothing to strive for and she can't communicate what it_ is _that she wants. She allows others (Ken, most often) to make decisions for her and even when she has a feeling that not all is well, she doesn't say so and that's a problem. She needs to figure out her own feelings and she needs to learn how to communicate them.  
On the other hand, Ken makes decisions without consulting Rilla at all and that's equally bad. It's also selfish, because as you say, he's definitely getting the better part of the deal. He gets to do what he loves, while she is set to be all alone in a strange city - a city that she moved to for him in the first place! She has no support system there and without him present, the press basically considers her fair game. So, no, Ken doesn't get anyone feeling sorry for him right now. At the moment, he's revealing himself to be a pretty bad boyfriend and there are no good excuses for that.  
I love you saying that Rilla and Ken are like real people to you. I always strive to create my characters in a way that feels as real as possible, with good aspects and bad ones, strengths and failings. And yes, that makes them exasperating sometimes, as all people can be exasperating, but like real people, they can grow and change, so here's hoping everyone will move past that at some point ;).  
Rilla's lack of contact or lack of a relationship with her siblings, her sisters especially, is something that I didn't like about RoI. I mean, from a writer's POV, I understand why LMM narrowed her cast of characters (getting more than 5 characters in line is like herding cats!), but I would have liked for Rilla to interact with her siblings and I would have liked for her to have actual friends. Accordingly, I'm trying to do better in my story, by building a supporting sisterly relationship, and by writing actual friends for Rilla. (Plus, her friends are fun to write. The England fans are a delight!)  
Bertha is a convenient character for me, because she needles Rilla when Rilla doesn't want to talk about something. That's why I made her be that way ;). It means that while Bertha often has a point, she can come on too strong and doesn't back off when most people would. I think she'd achieve more of she were more gentle in her approach, but even so, she's often right about what she says. In the last chapter, she was maybe a tad snobbish about the party planning business, but she was right in that Rilla should try and find out what she wants to do with her life. Right now, Rilla is being very passive about her future and that's not an overly healthy situation. She can't keep relying for others to decide her life for her.  
Not too long at all! I cherish all reviews, but as someone who's been known to ramble, I absolutely appreciate a long comment ;).  
_


	59. How you could easily take my man

_London, England  
November 2013_

 **How you could easily take my man**

"Rilla!"

"Here, Rilla! Look over here!"

"Show us your pretty face!"

"Why so glum, Mitzi?"

"Are you working tonight?"

"When did you last see Ken, Rilla?"

"How does it feel to be one of the staff?"

"Is it true he broke up with you?"

"Is that the same skirt you wore last week?"

Yes, it bloody well _is_. Normal people don't throw away a perfectly good skirt after wearing it once, you twat!

Of course, I don't say that. I don't say any of the things I'd like to throw at their heads. I don't tell them that Ken and I talked last night and that he very much _didn't_ break up with me. I don't tell them that yes, normal people have to work, but that working doesn't make me a servant. I don't even tell them to get lost, even though I want them to with every fibre of my being.

But we've been through this, they and I, countless of times before and thus, we go through the same dance again tonight.

The odd thing is that it doesn't even upset me anymore. What was enough to have me lose my composure back in New York barely raises a shrug nowadays. There's resignation, even a bone-deep weariness at having to go through this three, four, five times a day, but it's not enough to raise any kind of strong feeling anymore. Maybe it's just such a regular part of my life now that if I were to still get upset about it, I'd never _stop_ being upset. Easier just to shrug and deal with it.

Therefore, I just school my expression into one of neutrality, lower my head and walk onwards with measured steps. I can hear their shouts, trying to provoke me into reacting, but I just let the words pass by, not allowing them to touch me. When the photographers surround me and cut off my path, I stop and wait, unmoving, until they grow bored of perpetually taking the same pictures of me staring at the ground. When they draw back, I start walking again, calm and unhurried, as the cameras snap around me.

There seem to be more than usual, which makes sense on several accounts. For one, this event will draw enough well-known people to be interesting to them on its own, even without factoring me in. For another, it'll give them an opportunity to get a shot of me in front of a building with royal history, which must be like catnip to them. Banqueting House isn't an active royal palace anymore, but it _is_ where one of the Charleses was beheaded by Cromwell's cronies, so there's that. (Ugh. Those headlines will really write themselves, won't they?)

Identifying myself to the security guy at the door, I slip through the tradesmen entrance at the side of the building. In doing so, I finally shake off my unwelcome followers, ignoring their shouts of protests. Apparently, they didn't get a good enough shot, which, naturally, makes me feel just _devastated_. (Not.)

I navigate my way through the building easily, having been here with Owen just this summer. ( _Did_ anyone know that after the monarchy was restored, Cromwell's corpse was taken from its grave and executed _again_ , to prove a point? Weird, isn't it?) Sadly, with work keeping me busy most weekends, I see less of him and Persis than I have all year. He's perfectly polite about it, but she has voiced her disappointment more than once. Still, what to do?

As for Banqueting House itself, I didn't think I'd have reason to be back so soon, but then, I didn't think I'd be here today at all. It's a bit ironic, truly. I have the invitation to this shindig still lying on my kitchen counter at home, extended with the specific clarification that I was welcome with or without Ken. I declined, thinking it awkward to turn up without him present, and yet, thanks to Marcia and her employee roster, here I am anyway, just in a _very_ different capacity.

It's not as a guest that I'm attending the dinner and reception _to celebrate the engagement of Sir Hew Home of Wedderburn, 16th Baronet, to Lady Thomasina Wentworth-Watson, daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Rockingham_ (as the invitation so helpfully stated), it's as a lowly waitress.

Yeah. This is pretty ironic alright. No wonder the press is all over this, _especially_ with Ken all the way up in Scotland.

But I wouldn't be my mother's daughter if I didn't take this on the chin. I've got a job to do and even if I may not _want_ to do it, there's no shame in an honest day's work, as Grandma Bertha would say. All these rich, fancy people might think what they want, but I won't be bullied into being ashamed to be doing my job and to be doing it _well_.

Therefore, when it's time to carry the entrées into the big Main Hall, I square my shoulders, toss my head and raise my nose a little higher into the air than usual. I won't be cowed and I won't hide, no matter what anyone thinks.

Not that hiding is possible anyway. As I step into the hall with its many round tables beneath an ornate ceiling (by Rubens, according to Owen), it takes just moments for the first guest to notice and recognise me. And as I move between the tables to offer my tray with entrées, it once again becomes evident why I've become a bad waitress, through no fault of my own.

It's simple, really. A good waitress is invisible. I am anything but.

But I'd be an even worse waitress if I allowed that to influence my work, so I fall back on the same trick I used on the reporters outside. Impassive face (though more polite than what the press usually gets to see), no eye contact, measured movements and nothing more than a non-committal sound in reply when anyone tries talking to me. I can't stop them from noticing me, but I can sure as anything take no note of _them_ , beyond what is absolutely necessary on a professional level.

I really only allow the mask slip for a selected few people and even then only subtly. There are Ken's friends dotted around the room – with Hew, of course, at the main table next to his bride –, there's Teddy representing the royal family in Ken's absence, backed up by Katie and her boyfriend Adam (himself a refreshingly non-aristocratic presence in these circles), and there are Genie and Rolly Faversham, greeting me warmly and a little less subtly than I would have liked. (The absence of Tatty is noticeable, but then, she and the bride aren't exactly best friends, are they?)

All in all, dinner passes reasonably well, all eight courses of it. If I overhear people whispering about me in passing, my pride alone would prevent me from reacting, if my genuine fondness of Hew didn't already ensure it. My non-fondness of his bride keeps me mostly away from the main table, but it all seems to be working out rather well, and I breathe a private sigh of relief when the fruit plates are being cleared away.

Needless to say, the relief turns out to be premature. Because instead of concluding the evening when dinner does, the guests move on to the vaulted Undercroft for drinks and that's where it all begins to unravel.

It starts inconspicuously enough.

As I leave the kitchen with a tray of champagne glasses, I almost stumble over Teddy, who is loitering in the corridor leading to the Undercroft. He has no business being here, of course, but as usual, no-one dares to tell off royalty.

Except for me. "You're not supposed to be here," I tell him cheerfully as I try to move past him.

He stops me with a hand on my arm. "I just wanted to check up on you. Are you okay?"

It's sweet of him, if a little annoying. As if I need a prince – _any_ prince – to save me!

"Perfectly good, thanks for asking," I reply and give him a smile. (It's not _altogether_ true, but lovely as he is, Teddy isn't the person for me to tell my darkest sorrows to. I've seen quite a bit of him over the summer in Windsor, but still.)

He nods, but his expression remains unconvinced. "I just thought, because I know you got an invite to this party… you know, as a guest…" He trails off, looking uncomfortable.

Balancing the tray on one hand (no-one ever say years of waitressing didn't hone my skills!), I reach out to briefly put an arm around his shoulders. "I did get an invite. I politely declined and now I'm here working," I reassure him. "Just as I chose to."

That, too, isn't altogether true, because strictly speaking, it was _Marcia_ who chose to send me here in a working capacity. But _I_ chose not to come as a guest, so it's not altogether untrue either. We'll call it a stalemate.

"If you're truly alright…" Again, he leaves the end of the sentence dangling in the air. He really is the picture of awkwardness and I have to hide a smile. It _is_ sweet of him, maybe especially because he is so clearly not at all comfortable with the entire situation.

"I am," I promise and give him a little nudge in direction of the party. "And now, I'm sure there are people in there who will be very disappointed if they have to leave tonight without having shaken the hand of a real-life prince."

He grimaces, but obviously can't argue my point. Giving me a parting nod and lop-sided smile, he pushes off back towards the Undercroft. I look after him, shaking my head slightly, but smiling at the same time. Bless.

The tray is getting heavy, so I quickly follow him, hoping to get rid of the glasses soon. The guests do me the favour – some even move past other waiters with champagne trays to get a glass from mine, which is _super_ weird – and my tray is empty in no time. I'm in a little less of a hurry to get it filled again, so don't _quite_ rush back to the kitchen.

As it turns out, I never arrive there anyway, because once again, I am stopped in the corridor. This time, it's not Teddy but Ken's friend Tony who steps in front of me and asks discreetly, "Do you have a moment?"

I don't, strictly speaking, but then, I'm not opposed to any excuse that gets me out of doing one or two champagne rounds. So, after making sure there's no-one to tell me off for it, I allow Tony to lead me to the small backroom where we waiters left our personal belonging earlier.

Stepping through the door he holds open for me, I just want to ask what's the matter, when I see that the room isn't empty. Standing by the window is a man I quickly recognise as Mark, Ken's other friend. Upon hearing us enter, he turns and holds out a phone for me.

I bite back a groan.

Morons.

I take the phone anyway, mostly because I can't _not_ take it, but when Mark and Tony pass by me, I make sure to frown at them to express my displeasure. Tony lowers his head. Mark just smiles.

Looking after them, I wait until they have closed the door behind themselves before raising the phone to my ear. "Hello."

"Hello," replies Ken. "How are you?"

"Good, good," I answer breezily, hoping I might fool him yet.

He doesn't beat around the bush though. "Mark said you're waitressing at Hew's party."

"Mark would be correct about that," I confirm.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "And…?"

I consider playing dumb, but neither of us has time for that. "And nothing," I therefore reply. "I'm good."

"You didn't tell me you were scheduled to work there tonight," he points out.

"Didn't I?" I feign surprise. "Must have slipped my mind."

"Rilla…" He's clearly not buying it, which, while annoying, must count in his favour. Kudos are usually awarded for awareness.

"It's not a big deal," I tell him, shrugging at the empty room. "I'm doing my job. End of story."

I'm not entirely sure, but I think I can hear him sigh very softly. "And you're truly alright with this? No-one's giving you a hard time?" He hesitates for a moment, before adding, "I don't want to be that annoying boyfriend charting your every step from afar. I just… want to know you're okay."

And just like that, he's got me. Like always.

Damn him.

"I'm okay," I promise, softer now, and more genuine. Instinctively, I've reached up to twist the charm of my necklace. "They stare, but I'm used to that. The paps will have a field day with it tomorrow, but that's nothing new either. It's really just another day in the life of Cinderilla."

I don't know if it's the weak joke or the reference to that old nickname of New York City days, but I can hear the smile in Ken's voice when he asks, "And is everyone being nice to Cinderilla?"

"Everyone is," I confirm. "Teddy even checked up on me."

"Did he?" Ken sounds surprised, but pleased. "That's nice of him."

I nod. "It was sweet. Awkward, but sweet."

"Typical Teddy," he replies, amused.

There's nothing to add to that, so the conversation lulls for a moment. Not quite ready to let him go, I ask "How was your day? Did they let you do that thing you talked about last night?" (I did not totally understand the thing they wanted to let him do today. But no prattling!)

"They did!" Immediately, Ken's voice rises in excitement. "It was a bit daunting in the beginning, but I acquitted myself quite well, I think."

"Tell me more?" I prompt.

He does, as I knew he would. I rarely understand more than half of what he's saying and am usually interested in even less, but whatever he's doing up there in Scotland with his Tornadoes, he's clearly enjoying himself and he enjoys talking about it. It's all gibberish to me though, so, while he goes into minute detail about some flying thing he did today, I tune out his words, instead focusing on letting his voice wash over me.

It always, always gets me. Just hearing his voice. More than once in the past two months, I've sat all alone in my crappy apartment in depressing Croydon after yet another day carrying trays and waiting tables, and caught myself wondering why I'm even doing this and whether it's really, truly worth it. But then he called and I heard his voice and it was an instant reminder that yes, of course, this is why. _He_ is why.

"– and then I looked to my right and would you believe that there's a flying pig right next to me?"

Wait.

A _pig_?

"A pig? A _flying_ pig?"

"Caught your attention, did it?" Ken asks and I know he's grinning.

"You had my attention all along," I insist, pouting.

"You weren't listening to a word I was saying!" he counters, clearly amused.

"I was listening to your _voice_ ," I explain primly. "It's a nice voice."

He laughs a soft, rumbling laugh and suddenly, I think I might cry.

"You know what? I'll take it," he replies, laughter still in his voice.

I swallow against the lump in my throat, trying to keep my own voice light. "You better!"

"I do," promises Ken. "And in the interest of equality, let me point out that you, too, have a very nice voice. In fact, it's so nice that I'd love to hear it again tomorrow. Are you free around eight?"

I nod, though of course, he can't see that. "I am."

I _will_ be. And if Marcia wants to schedule me for yet another last minute waitressing job, she can stick her employee roster where she usually puts the clysters she swears by for skin hydration! (Don't ask. I didn't.)

"Great. I'll call you," replies Ken. Then, in a softer tone, "I love you."

"Me, too." I nearly choke on the words, barely keeping my voice level. It's for that reason that I'm almost glad when he says his goodbyes and cuts the call. I'm vexingly close to tears and I don't want him to hear that. I don't want him to worry.

Because while hearing his voice reliably reminds me why I'm hanging in there, despite the awful flat and the annoying job and the horrible loneliness, it also always reminds me of how much I miss him. I'm doing fine when I'm just going about my daily business, but then he calls and I realise, again, that I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. I know it was right not to prevent him from going, but this separation –

"It sucks, doesn't it?"

I whirl around, almost dropping the phone. Standing next to the door, eyeing me with an indecipherable expression on her face, is none other than the bride-to-be, one Toppy Wentworth-Watson.

"It sucks, when he's up there with his airplanes, happy as a clam, and you're down here, miserable as can be, doesn't it?" she elaborates, eyeing me with interest.

I can do nothing but stare.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I won't eat you," she informs me conversationally. "Despite what Tatty says, I'm not actually a harpy."

"Tatty didn't –" I begin, still trying to process her presence, but also knowing I must defend Tatty.

Toppy clucks her tongue. "Of course Tatty did. There's no love lost between us and there hasn't been ever since we were at St. Mary's in Ascot. It's nothing personal."

Um… isn't that the very _definition_ of personal?

"She thought I was with him to spite her," Toppy continues, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Because they're friends and she doesn't like me. When he and I dated, she was forced to spend time with me and it annoyed her."

I stare at her, my mind whirring as I try to understand what the hell is happening here.

"That wasn't it, naturally," she continues, quite as if that should be obvious. "I wasn't with him because of his position either, however many people claimed it at the time."

There's something about the way she holds herself that is odd to me. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it almost seems… could it be… is she… _drunk_?

"I was with him because I loved him," Toppy asserts, swaying slightly as she comes a little closer. ( _Definitely_ tipsy!) "Just as you are with him because you love him."

She says it so certainly, so unquestioningly, that I am momentarily taken aback. "How would _you_ know?"

"I know because I _know_ ," answers Toppy in a tone that implies this should make sense to me. "No-one would put up with all of this if they didn't love him. The lack of privacy, the scrutiny, the intrusions, the judgement. The loneliness. No matter what people claim, no sane person wants to become a princess, much less a queen. I didn't. You don't either."

I blink at her. Truthfully, it's a little disconcerting, to be told what I want and feel in such an assertive way by a perfect stranger. (It's not that she's _wrong_ , though. It's not that.)

"You put up with it for _him_ and because you love him," Toppy informs me. "I loved him, too. I'm aware that most people just saw my title and my breeding, but I only saw him."

She breaks off and her eyes suddenly focus on me, considering me for several long moments. My instinct is to squirm away, but I stand my ground, raising my chin a little.

"It's ironic that I should be followed by you in his affections," she decides. "You lack everything that made me a good match for him."

"On paper," I demur.

Toppy inclines her head, seemingly thinking over my words. "You might have a point there. He's kept you around for much longer than anyone thought he would."

"I _stayed_ ," I counter, not liking what she's implying.

"You followed him," she corrects, raising a pointed finger. (Damn her!) "Though I must acknowledge that he was willing to have a long distance relationship with you."

"And not with you." It's not a question.

Toppy shakes her head, her gaze slightly unfocused. "I thought he would come back. He told me it would be unfair to keep me waiting while he was in New York and I thought it would only be temporary. Even when the whispers started that he was seeing a girl, I convinced myself he was just _sowing his wild oats_. I thought that he'd return and we'd pick up where we left our relationship."

Her eyes meet mine, coolly calculating, and I have to fight the urge to look away.

"But you didn't go anywhere," she adds, her expression quizzical, as if confronted with a riddle she can't solve. "He came back and _still_ you didn't disappear. All of a sudden, long distance wasn't such a problem for him, was it? Worse still, he brought you here – or maybe you came yourself. Either way, I thought you'd be history long ago, but you're still… _here_."

She frowns and I shrug. "Yeah. I'm still here."

Taking another unsteady step towards me, Toppy studies me closely and I realise that _I'm_ the riddle in this.

"I wonder what he sees in you," she tells me, in a way that is matter-of-fact, despite the insulting implication of her words. "You're so _normal_ , but maybe that's it. After the disaster with his mother, maybe normal looks just right to him. Everyone says his father adores you, anyway, and no-one knows better that breeding doesn't make a good queen than the King does. Maybe the King advised him to find himself a normal girl to marry."

"I doubt that," I reply, scoffing, because really, the thought of Ken going to Owen for marriage advice is plainly ridiculous. "And besides, we're not getting married."

Toppy looks surprised. "Oh, but he will marry you if you hang in there. This air force gig is his last hurrah in the military and he knows it. Come next year, he'll be thirty and settled into royal duties and maybe a cushy job at some army office to soften the blow. He'll start thinking about the future and for him, a future inevitably includes a wife and children. If you're still around at that point, it'll make sense to marry you."

Right. I don't know whether to feel pleased or insulted by that. Surely, that's a feat?

"You must marry him, you know," Toppy adds, still in that very certain tone she's used for this entire conversation.

I almost choke on my own spit. " _Excuse_ me? How is that any of _your_ business?"

"You must marry him because –" For the first time since ambushing me, Toppy's voice falters. She raises a hand and waves it haphazardly in the air, but doesn't finish her sentence.

She doesn't need to, either. Because this time, I study _her_ closely and realise that not only is she drunk, she's also close to tears.

I must marry Ken because if I don't, she might have had a chance but for marrying one of his best friends. I must marry Ken so her marriage to Hew won't turn out to be a mistake.

How fucked up is _that_?

"I'm fond of Hew, don't get me wrong," Toppy continues, only now, there's a note of urgency to it. "We're fond of each other. He's very generous and considerate and he makes me laugh. We're a good match."

"But you – you don't – you don't love him," I stutter.

She dabs her eyes with her fingertips. "Love is a luxury you have to be able to afford. I can't afford it. I was… I was brought up to be chatelaine of a great country house. It's the only thing I know how to do. I don't have… your freedom."

My _freedom_? What the…?

"Hew's estate has a good size and is profitable enough. We'll live comfortably. His castle isn't as big as Daddy's, but then, no castle is. I shall be happy there," Toppy asserts, though who she's trying to convince, I'm not sure.

She's trying to smile bravely, but her watery eyes belie the attempt. And, really, I wouldn't feel like smiling either. I mean, she's at her own engagement party, partly drunk, unburdening herself to the girlfriend of the man she's very probably still in love with.

Honestly? I'd be crying, too.

Something about the sight moves something within me into action and before I've had time to think it through, I already find myself gathering my handbag from a corner of the room. "Sit down," I tell Toppy. "I'll touch up your make up. You can't go outside like this."

Surprisingly, she doesn't fight me, just placidly sits down on a chair and turns up her face for me to administer to. She has also seemingly said everything she wanted to say, because while I work, neither of us speaks. It's only once I've repaired her eye make-up and have moved onto dabbing some shine from her face that she informs me, very pleasantly, "We are not friends."

"No," I agree. "I didn't think we were."

"Good," replies Toppy and lapses back into silence.

I finish powdering her forehead and take a step back. "There. All done."

"Very kind of you," she responds, the picture of genteel politeness.

I nod, dropping my powder compact back into my bag, and dare hope that maybe, this most surreal of evenings might herewith be over, but then the door open and one look tells me that this already too long day hasn't yet concluded.

"Hew!" I exclaim, too loudly, as my brain frantically grapples for an explanation. "Are you looking for Toppy? Her make-up got a little smudged, but I touched it up and she's all set to go again."

As far as lies go, it wasn't my worst one by far (perhaps not even my worst one this evening), but Hew just shakes his head tiredly. "It's okay, Rilla. Thank you." Holding his hand out for Toppy, he asks her, "Shall we, Tops?"

Toppy looks up at him, her head swaying very slightly in a way I'm not sure is a nod or not. But then she takes his hand and allows him to help her to her feet. She's become even more unstable than before, so Hew has to firmly take her arm to stabilise her as he leads her from the room.

I follow them more slowly, stopping just past the door and looking after them as they go back to celebrate their engagement. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mark walk up to me, his gaze also fixed on Hew and Toppy.

"Tell me," I ask, still looking after this very strange bridal couple, "tell me that he doesn't… I mean, that he doesn't know that…?"

"What do you think?" replies Mark amiably, turning to look at me.

I consider his expression for a moment, but the only answer I see there is the one I can't believe. That yes, Hew very much knows. (I wonder if Ken does.)

"But how…" I stammer. "How…?"

Mark shrugs. "Something we all learned very early on is that Ken always comes first. He might not ask for it, but in this country, everything and everyone revolves around him. The rest of us must take second place by default."

The way he says it is very calm, like it's just an unshakeable fact he's arranged himself with, but my mind refuses to accept it so quickly. "But that's madness!" I protest. "You can't build a proper friendship if one person always comes first. I mean, how is that supposed to _work_?"

Something flits over Mark's face and I need a split second to recognise surprise. "But you know how it works," he tells me. "You've built a relationship on much the same grounds, haven't you?"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Jolene' (written by_ _Dolly Parton and released by her in 1973_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Your comment made me laugh! If they were real people, you wouldn't mind throttling them, would you? ;) You'd be utterly correct, too, because they're both bungling this. I tend to blame Ken more, because he created that situation, but Rilla certainly isn't doing much to change circumstances for herself and that's on her._  
 _Her job_ is _utterly miserable, mostly because of the awful people she works with. Waitressing in itself is a perfectly respectable profession, but it's not what she was hired to do and besides, this does have shades of her boss selling her to the best paying client. She only has to carry trays and serve drinks, so it's not_ that _bad, but it's disrespectful of her as a person. Rilla realises this, I think, but doesn't really consider quitting, partly because of her situation and partly because of who she is.  
It's true that she needs to figure out what she wants and needs and learn to communicate it, both in her relationship and at work. I think partly, what's holding her back is that she doesn't think very highly of herself. She is used to thinking of herself as the ugly duckling of the family (though "ugly" in this case would better be rendered "stupid"), so she thinks there are limits to what she can demand of others without them shutting her out. That affects both her acquiescing behaviour with Ken and how she just accepts her job situation. She _should _absolutely go out and get a better job, but she doesn't think she can get one, so she'd rather not risk the one she has. She can be pretty confident in a lot of situations, especially of the social variant, but she views herself as someone who will never achieve much and she acts accordingly. That's no excuse for how she lets others dictate her life, but it's at least partly why she doesn't stand up for herself.  
As for Ken... it wouldn't have hurt him at all to ask Rilla _properly _whether it was alright for him to go. It also wouldn't have hurt him to discuss this with her beforehand and involve her in the decision making process, instead of presenting her with a fait accompli. But Ken is... well, he's a prince and that has to show in some ways. He's generally a nice and caring guy, but he's also used to being the centre of the world. As Mark says in this chapter, everything revolves around Ken and it always has. He doesn't consciously want people to acquiesce to him, but unconsciously, he does kind of expect them to, simply because everyone always has. There's a sense of entitlement to him that comes with his position (it's also pretty evident in some real life princes out there...) and it's situations like these when it shows. Not a good excuse_ at all _and something he has to work on speedily, but that's my reasoning for why he acts like he does.  
_

 _To Mammu:  
Sorry to hear that you've been sick! I hope you feel better now? Sending many healthy wishes to you either way!  
Grandma Bertha often has a point with what she says. She isn't necessarily always _kind _about the way she says it, but what she says is very often true. She's a convenient character for me to have, because I can use her as a mouthpiece to say "well, this isn't working" whenever Rilla is doing the oistrich-thing and hiding her head in the sand.  
Ken is far removed from being the perfect boyfriend! You're right in that he shouldn't give up his dreams, but he should have found a way to involve Rilla in the decision and work out a solution that is manageable for her, too. As you said, he could have asked her to accompany him to Scotland, instead of just assuming that she was staying in London. Not that that would necessarily have been the perfect solution, but it would have been an option that they should have talked about. It's the lack of talking where Ken fails as a boyfriend right now. He locks her out and that's shoddy.  
As for Rilla, yes, she is passive and yes, in her passiveness, she can be annoying. She's technically the heroine of this story, but she has her short-comings and failings. She gets things wrong, to the point that she is in need of a good shake, but that's how I want her to be. She has good points and bad ones and sometimes, the bad ones make her totally annoying, but, hopefully, also more interesting than if she were Super-Rilla.  
_ _With regards to what drives Rilla and Ken at the moment, I'd like to point you upwards to my reply to JoAnna. I wrote it first and it saves me from simply repeating myself ;). What I said there about Rilla not believing in herself when it comes to measurable success and about Ken having a sense of entitlement also applies to what you (rightfully!) criticise about their current behaviour.  
Oh, and just to be clear: you didn't sound rude at all! For one, I agree with what you said and actually intended for it to feel that way when I wrote it, so it's really pleasing to me ;). For another, voicing an honest, well-reasoned opinion is never rude. Even _if _I disagreed with it, your opinion would be absolutely valid and what's more, it would be welcome to me. There are few things as helpful to me in writing this story as readers' honest opinions, so please always keep them coming!_


	60. Someday you'll pay the price

_Glen St Mary, Canada  
December 2013_

 **Someday you'll pay the price**

"There you are, darling," comes Mum's voice from behind me. I turn to look at her.

"Your sister has commandeered my kitchen, but I thought we could offer our assistance," she suggests with a smile.

I slip my phone into my skirt pocket and walk over to where Mum's standing by the door. "Where's Grandmother Marilla?" I want to know

After all, she's usually Joy's opposite in the yearly wrangle of who gets control of the Ingleside kitchen at Christmas. It's generally a toss-up who wins (and Jem has been known to take bets on it), but it reliably means that everyone else is surplus to requirements and better stays out of that kitchen if they value their sanity.

"She went to lie down. She has been feeling under the weather a bit lately," explains Mum.

I nod, sighing. "They're not getting any younger," I point out, meaning all three of my grandparents. Grandma Bertha is quite mobile again after her hip replacement, but Grandmother Marilla's eyesight has increasingly been troubling her and Grandpa never goes anywhere without his cane anymore.

"None of us are," replies Mum, looking a little wistful. "You all grew up on me far too quickly, too. Sometimes, it's hard to believe than none of my babies are babies anymore."

Laughing, I reach out to put an arm over her shoulders. "Aw, Mum. You're getting sentimental!"

"I'm not sentimental!" protests Mum. "As I told your father, I understand that it is good and necessary that all of you flew the nest. I just might, on occasion, find myself wishing you wouldn't all have flown so far."

She has a point there. With Jem and Faith having left for their African adventure, there's none of us left in Halifax permanently – or even anywhere close to it. My geography is a little wobbly, so I wouldn't put money on it, but there's a good chance that Joy on New York might actually be the one living closest to Mum and Dad these days and she's in an entire different country!

"There's always a possibility that one of us will come back one day," I comfort Mum as I steer her towards the staircase.

"Will _you_?" she asks and when I look at her, I can see that far from being wistful, she looks alert now.

I shrug, brushing off the question. "I like London."

It's not what she asked and we both know it, but we've reached the bottom of the stairs and are thus engulfed in the general Christmas melee, meaning that even if Mum wanted to press the matter, she doesn't get to now. This is hardly the place for serious discussions and not even Mum can ignore that fact.

I feel her glancing at me from the side, but resolutely look ahead and remark brightly, "Whoever chose the music today was clearly out to torture poor Dad."

Because ever since we returned from church, one abysmal Christmas pop song after the next has been forcing its way into our ear drums. We already went through Mariah Carey crooning _All I Want For Christmas_ , had Bing Crosby wishing us a _White Christmas_ , listened to Dean Martin beg _Let It Snow_ , accompanied Chris Rea while he was _Driving Home for Christmas_ and are now being subjected to the multi-star arrangement of _Do They Know It's Christmas?_. We're really only missing _Last Christmas_ to round out the auditory torture.

"I think Walter was feeling the holiday spirit," explains Mum, herself humming along to whichever member of Band Aid is currently belting out their part of the lyrics. (Was there ever a worse pun in the history of music than _Band Aid_ , I wonder?)

Thankfully, it proves to be much quieter in the kitchen, with just Joy pottering away in preparation of today's dinner. The only other creature present is Monday who sits smack dab in the middle of the room and doesn't take his eyes off Joy, clearly hoping for some scraps to fall his way.

"Look, Mum! We might have moved away, but you've got Monday with you now!" I remind Mum cheerfully, alluding to the fact that with Jem and Faith gone, our parents got custody of the dog.

Mum gives me a _look_. "Monday is a very good dog, but having him live with us isn't comparable to having my much beloved children close."

"I don't know," I muse, while crossing over to pat the dog's head. He smiles up at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Sometimes, a pet can be much better company than a person."

"That cat really does have you well-trained," remarks Joy and grins at me over a large bowl filled with – something.

I just shrug in response, mostly because I can't contradict her. George does have me well-trained and of course, he's absolutely of the opinion that a pet – well, a _cat_ – is the best company to be had.

"Is Ken looking after George while you're here?" enquires Mum as she walks to the stove to inspect the content of one of the pots. Joy hurries after her and swats her hand away.

"Ken's in Scotland," I answer, letting my fingers move to scratch Monday's ears. "His friend Damian is looking after George until I come back."

Mum wisely steps back from the stove without any more interference. "He is celebrating Christmas with his family?" she asks, meaning, presumably, Ken.

I shake my head. "He's on duty at the air force station he's training at over both Christmas and New Year's."

"Really?" Joy looks surprised. "You would have thought he could pull ranks to be given leave or something."

"He wouldn't!" I protest, feeling a little indignant on Ken's behalf. "And besides, he already took his leave earlier this month so we could see each other before I came here."

It wasn't long, but it was glorious. (And it went quite a way to silence any doubts Toppy and Mark might have kindled in me about Ken and our relationship.) Not having seen him since September, just being close to him again felt like Heaven. Accordingly, we spent most of the time holed up in his Kensington Palace apartment, just relishing each other's company. Of course, Marcia was less than happy when I asked for several days leave at the beginning of December and then another week over Christmas, but I put my foot down. When she realised that yes, I actually _would_ quit over this, rent and bills and everything be damned, she grudgingly acquiesced. Apparently, whatever premium they're charging their clients to have me serve the food is enough that they don't want to give up on it long-term, even if it means missing me during part of the busy Christmas party season.

"When will his training be over?" Mum enquires, absent-mindedly rolling a potato between her fingers. Joy reaches over and plucks it from her hands.

I grimace. "May."

To think that it'll be almost another half a year before he comes back to London… it's ridiculous. Plainly _absurd_.

"What is he doing up there anyway?" Joy wants to know, picking up a knife and starting to peel the potatoes. "I thought he was done with the army."

"Air force," I correct. "And yes, it did look like his active military days were behind him, but he was never able to fully finish his pilot training. He was missing the part where they train them on a particular type of aircraft."

"And he's doing that now?" asks Mum, valiantly trying to look supportive and interested.

I nod, burrowing my fingers in Monday's fur. "He's being trained on the Tornado fighter jets."

"Fighter jets," repeats Mum slowly.

Unconsciously, I twist Monday's fur around my fingers. He whines softly and I let go, giving him an apologetic pat.

"Look, I know you don't approve of him being active in the military, but for him, that comes with the job," I point out. (It's odd. I'd give a lot for Ken to drop that training and return to London – return to _me_ –, but when he's being criticised for it, I feel strangely protective of his choices.)

Mum sighs. "It's not that I disapprove of his involvement specifically. I just don't agree with the concept in general. History has shown that more often than not, the military has been used to oppress rather than to free the people."

Ugh, what _is_ this? Pacifism101?

"I consider it fairly unlikely that the British military has a secret plan for the oppression of the masses," I remark pointedly. Monday, perhaps sensing my change in emotion, wiggles his muzzle into my hand.

"That's not quite what I meant," replies Mum, sounding maddeningly reasonable.

Monday experimentally starts licking my fingers and though I pull them away quickly, I respond by scratching his ears. He seems to consider that an acceptable compromise, thumping his tail loudly against the kitchen floor.

For a few moments, that's the only sound heard in the kitchen and those moments are enough for the annoyance to leave me. "I think Ken enjoys the military because it feels like an equaliser to him. He can pretend to be among equals when with his fellow officers," I explain, suddenly feeling tired. "And besides, it's not like he'll ever put that training to use, is it? It's not like they'll ever let him fight an actual _war_."

"His father did, though, didn't he? During the Falkland war," pipes up Joy over her potatoes. "I read it on his Wikipedia page."

I look up at her, surprised. "You read Owen's Wikipedia page?"

She nods, looking a little defensive. "I was educating myself. I read yours, too."

"I have a _Wikipedia page_?" I ask, now full-on incredulous.

"Indeed you have one," confirms Joy, her expression turning a little smug at knowing something I don't. "I'm surprised you've never seen it, but then, that would explain why it still uses that not very attractive picture of you out shopping. It makes you look like you have a double chin. You really should replace it with something more flattering."

"A _Wikipedia page_?" I repeat, still unable to wrap my mind around it. "Isn't that for people who have, who know, _accomplished_ something?"

"Something more than –" Joy abruptly stops herself and looks over to Mum. "Something more than, _ahem_ , dating a prince." It's clear to everyone but Monday that 'dating' wasn't the word she initially meant to say and I throw her a dirty look.

Mum herself is clearly hiding a smile. "Some people might say any stable relationship is an accomplishment," she remarks peacefully. "And apart from that, I _do_ understand why you are notable enough to warrant your own Wikipedia page. There's certainly a lot of interest in your life."

Don't I know it!

"You _really_ haven't seen it?" probes Joy and throws the last of the potatoes into a water-filled pot. "Don't you ever google yourself?"

"To be confronted with nasty articles about how I _dared_ wear the same coat twice in a row or how my flat is allegedly located in a drug trading hotspot, how I'm cheating on Ken with alternatively _his_ friend, _my_ friend or his brother, or how my job secretly requires me to wear and then _no_ t wear a French maid costume?" I ask sarcastically. "No thanks, I'll pass."

Mum and Joy exchange a glance, before Mum comes over and rubs my shoulder comfortingly. "Is it very bad?"

"I try not to read it, but over there, it's hard to escape completely," I tell them, sighing. "There's rarely a day when I'm _not_ in one of the papers and usually, they come up with pure drivel, one lie more outrageous than the next. Some weeks ago, apparently, there were a flurry of bets placed on me being pregnant and the ironic thing about _that_ was that I hadn't seen Ken in _weeks_! Would have had to have been some form of Immaculate Conception."

I twist my mouth into a smile, but at this point, it's only gallows humour and there's no hiding that fact from my mother and my sister. Once more, they exchange a pointed glance and I can't even blame them.

"Your grandparents mentioned that there have been several unkind articles in recent weeks," Mum remarks thoughtfully. "I wasn't sure how much they affected you though. You seemed to be holding up well."

(George would probably beg to differ. He's the one who witnesses me in my most despondent moments, after all.)

I'm putting up a good front, is the truth. I decided a while ago that there's no sense in worrying my family. They aren't able to help me anyway, so there's nothing to be accomplished by complaining to them from half a world away. And besides…

"I shouldn't whine, really." I try to raise a smile that I hope is convincing – or at least brave. "It's my decision and it always was my decision. You were the ones being dragged into this."

"We're fine," Joy declares quickly. "I mean, having US immigration after us wasn't much fun, but in the end, I think it all turned out for the best. I love doing what I'm doing now and I might not have done it had things been different." She waves a wooden spoon in my direction for emphasis.

I incline my head, feeling grateful for her reassurances. "I'm glad." And I mean it. "But whenever I look at how the papers treated Nan all this year…" I leave the sentence hanging. Monday's cold nose presses against my hand and I absent-mindedly stroke his head.

"Nan's strong," Mum assures me and squeezes my shoulder. "She had a tough year and the publicity didn't help, but she has plenty of mettle. She's already looking forward again, throwing herself into her studies. And I think the paparazzi mostly leave her alone now."

"They do _now_ , but they didn't some months ago," I argue, grimacing slightly. "I agree though that Nan was beautiful about it, holding her head high and not letting it get to her. She would have been perfectly justified in blaming me, but she never did and I'm really grateful for it. It's also why I'll stop complaining now, because if Nan got through it, so can I. After all, _I_ brought this on myself, didn't I?"

"Debatable," mutters Joy and cracks an egg with perhaps more force than necessary.

But Mum gives me an encouraging smile. "You know you can always come to us for support, but I must say I'm impressed by your courage." She looks from me to Joy and back again, her expression suddenly a little wistful. "What did I do to deserve four such brave daughters?"

(Honestly, I think Jem's absence is getting to her a little. It's the first time she hasn't had all of us around her at Christmas and though she's putting up a brave front, it _does_ change things.)

"Is this where I say that you deserve it because you were the one to raise us into brave women?" enquires Joy, her voice innocent, but a definite glint in her eye.

"Yes, this would be an adequate moment," agrees Mum, herself looking distinctly amused.

Hearing them joke, I feel myself relax. Looks like the difficult talk is over for the moment. Monday also seems to sense it and barks once, wagging his tail against the kitchen floor.

It's just as well that the topic has shifted, since moments later, Shirley sticks his head through the door to announce, "If anyone is interested, Rilla's future father-in-law will be addressing his subjects in a few minutes."

I make a point to roll my eyes at him, but he just grins and disappears back into the hall.

(What's with everyone suddenly bothering me about marriage anyway? Ken and I are not even living in the same _country_ , for Heaven's sake! What do they think he'll do? Propose via Skype? Send a _pigeon_?)

Thankfully steering clear of the subject of marriage, Mum asks, "You're getting along well with Ken's family, aren't you? His father seemed very fond of you when we met him in Oxford."

"They're pretty great," I confirm, softening slightly. "Persis has been very generous about sharing her horses with me and Teddy is just a lovely person all around. Owen seems to enjoy introducing me to various historical buildings with royal connections."

"So you're really hobnobbing with the royals now, aren't you?" Joy wants to know and despite the flippant words, her tone is kind.

I shrug, feeling a little uncomfortable, "I've been pretty busy with work this autumn, so haven't seen that much of them in recent weeks. But in spring and summer, I was over at Windsor quite a bit, especially after graduation, when Ken was away on his tour to India. Once, when Persis and I got absolutely drenched while riding out, they even insisted I stay the night. It was very _Pride and Prejudice_ , just without the scheming."

"Stay the night? At Windsor Castle?" echoes Mum, a slight catch in her voice.

(I know I didn't share that bit of information with them before. I didn't know how to work it in and besides, it felt awkward. It still does, but both Mum and Joy have a talent for making you say more than you want to, especially face-to-face.)

"Where did you sleep? Just some generic guest room or did they give you the bed of some famous royal of times past?" asks Joy, untypically interested in the subject.

Alas, I shake my head no. "I stayed in the Prince of Wales Tower, that is, in Ken's bedroom."

What I don't say is that it might as well have been a guest room for what little personality it held. There were barely any personal effects, with the exception of some books, though those might also have come from the castle library. In one of the wardrobes, I found a few suits and shirts, but they didn't look like that had been worn in a while and anyway, they didn't smell of him either, which I discovered when I borrowed one of the shirts to sleep in. All in all, if I hadn't _known_ them to be Ken's rooms, I probably wouldn't have guessed it either.

Looking from Mum to Joy, I find both of them looking back at me, their expressions identically odd, and I remember why I told no-one about my stay at Windsor. I don't want to be looked at oddly. Here, of all places, I just want to be myself.

Not that the universe is ready to grant that wish, because Dad choses that moment to knock on the door and stick his head inside to inform us that the King's Speech is just starting. (Cue even more odd looks in my direction!) I have half a mind to escape, or at least stay inside the kitchen, but Joy shoos us out with the assurance that she's fine on her own and with Mum's arm around my shoulder, an inconspicuous escape is possible.

Leaving Joy (and a beseeching Monday) to the dinner preparations, Mum and I cross over to the living room, where the others have already convened.

It's an unusually small group this time. With Jem and Faith gone and Nan and Jerry broken up, there was no immediate reason to celebrate with the Merediths this year, so for the first time in a while, they haven't come over for Christmas. Of course, we saw everyone in the church this morning (except for Una, who now has a permanent congregation in the violently named North Battleford). I also know Nan is glad not to have to spend dinner sitting across from Jerry (and Jerry is probably glad not to spend it sitting across from Di), but it does make things rather quieter than usual. (Of course, the lack of Jem contributes to that. Jem is rarely quiet.)

Just outside the living room, I stop, hovering on the threshold. (Somewhere, _Frosty the Snowman_ plays.) Mum's arm slips from my shoulders and she turn to look at me. Dad, too, inclines his head to the side, his expression questioning.

"Would it be alright if I watched in your study instead?" I ask him.

"Of course," he answers. "Is anything the matter?"

They're both clearly concerned now, so I quickly shake my head. "No, it's fine. I just think it might be… awkward."

This time, Mum exchanges a long glance with Dad ( _why_ is everyone non-verbally communicating about me today?), before both look back at me.

Mum touches my cheek. "Go ahead."

Dad brushes a hand over my hair. "We'll see you later."

Not needing to be told twice, I give them both a vague smile, before crossing the hall to slip into Dad's study. It's quiet here, and gloriously deserted.

Briefly, I consider not watching the speech at all, but there's a chance Owen might ask me about it when I see him next and _that_ would be even more awkward. Better to watch it and not have to make something up.

The opening of the speech is generic enough. He begins by talking a little about the spirit of Christmas and about how it's a time to spend with family and friends, both new and old. After that, there's a brief overview of political and otherwise notable events that happened in 2013, including the 20th anniversary of his own accession to the throne, accompanied by a montage showing the various events the royals attended to mark the occasion.

"Of course, the year also held important milestones for my family," Owen continues and the camera briefly pans to a framed picture of his family standing next to him. "I myself was honoured to attend not one or two, but _three_ graduation ceremonies this year. As a King and as a father, I am unspeakably proud to see our children forge ahead and build their lives, both in service to this country and in pursuit of their own happiness."

Again, the picture of Owen on the screen gives way to photos taken at the graduation ceremonies of his children. First, there's Persis, all decked out in her graduation robes and sitting astride a horse (Alix, to be specific). The next picture shows Teddy, standing between both his parents, looking quietly pleased and not as ridiculous as most people do in graduation robes. The last picture is of Ken and Owen talking in front of The Bod – and with a jolt I realise that the figure at the side of the frame, face in profile and half-hidden by hair, is me.

It would be easy to put it off as an accident. Maybe there were no better pictures of Ken and Owen on graduation day or maybe some underling didn't look too closely at who else was present in the photo. But if I learned anything at all about Owen is that he has a very fine sense for public presentation and public perception. He doesn't do these things accidentally. They showed a picture with me in it because he wanted them to. Whatever _that_ means.

"Last, but never least, I want to direct some words to my beautiful wife," continues TV-Owen. "It was on this day thirty years ago that she made me the happiest of men by pledging to share her life with me. In these thirty years, she has brought joy and compassion not only to me and my family but also to this country, and I know I'm not alone in thanking her for her love and devotion. Leslie, you light up the life of everyone you meet and you certainly made mine many times brighter."

Those are surprisingly candid words for a king (especially _this_ king) and they're enough to have the two TV presenters on duty immediately latching on to them. The moment Owen's face has faded from the screen, they pop up, like a pair of too-chipper muppets.

"Well, Jenny, wasn't that romantic?" asks the man.

"Very romantic, Bob," agrees the woman. "It's a rare admission of love from an otherwise private king."

"And made to an even more private queen!" exclaims the man. "Will Her Majesty appreciate these words of honesty from her husband?"

"Who's to know, Bob?" responds the woman cryptically. "Few are privy to what the Queen thinks."

"That is undoubtedly true, Jenny," acknowledges the man. "Among other things, no-one has yet found out what she truly thinks of her eldest son's current squeeze."

Behind them, a picture of me appears as I walk down some nondescript London street and I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach. Do they really _have_ to?

"There has been intense speculation, but no confirmation of her opinion, Bob," explains the woman. "The King himself is said to be quite fond of Rilla Blythe though. That she was included in the picture of the Prince of Wales's graduation was no accident!"

"I shouldn't think it was," replies the man. "Though whether he will still think so fondly of her once he's heard what our next guest has to say, remains to be seen."

Instinctively, I feel myself tense up. What _now_?

"That is absolutely the question," agrees the woman, sounding altogether too cheerful. "We will leave it to our viewers to decide. But first, let's welcome Chad Johnson and listen to what he has to say."

Chad Johnson?

Never heard of him.

I just begin to relax again, thinking it's yet another made-up drivel, but then the camera pans to the side, showing a man entering the studio and something within me clenches. The name might not ring a bell, but when I see his face, a memory floats to the surface from some dark, usually ignored corner of my brain. I remember his face, I remember _him_ , and when I realise who he is, the sinking feeling in my stomach turns to pure dread.

Mexico Guy.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Cold as Ice' (written by Lou Gramm and Mick Jones, released by Foreigner in 1977)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:  
In fairness, the phone calls are scheduled because Ken can't really manage his own time. When his commanding officers tell him to be out by his airplane at 11pm, he better be out by his airplane at 11pm. His training guarantees that he's less flexible than ever, so while I imagine not all their contact is pre-planned, it's just easier to check when they're both free and schedule calls for that time. Probably makes the most of the little shared free time they have.  
Rilla does absolutely exhibit a somewhat petulant and childish streak in deliberately not telling Ken about working at the party. She knows that if _he _had known, he might have intervened (via Hew) and she doesn't want his help right now. There's a sense of "you left me, so you don't get to help me" to her thinking. Not at all helpful, but then, feelings so rarely are.  
No worries about Mark though! He's not afraid of Ken (none of his friends are and Mark especially not) and he's not the type to be bullied into doing something he doesn't want to do. I mean, sure, as Ken's friend, he feels it's his job to look out for Rilla, but that's more because he cares for Ken and, by extension, for Rilla as well. Ken's not there to check up on her, so Mark does it instead (just like Teddy). It's all very friendly and harmless :).  
Dating someone in the public eye must be pretty awful (unless you crave public attention yourself, that is), and dating an actual royal must be worst of all. It's like the press and public assume that just because the person you love is in the public eye, you suddenly become public property as well. Technically, a royal girlfriend (or boyfriend) is still a private individual, but you wouldn't know it from the constant attention directed at them. I think that'd be hard on anyone and I tried to show that here with Toppy. On paper, she has everything going for her, but even she resented parts of being Ken's girlfriend. Rilla's not alone in this.  
(I _do _have opinions on a certain real life prince's decisions. I shall not voice them though. Let's simply say it with old Frederick II: "May everyone find happiness in their own fashion.")_

 _To Mammu:  
I really don't know if there's some rule against dating your friend's ex-girlfriend. If there is, let's just assume Ken and Hew had a talk and everyone is being very adult about this ;). And yes, I also feel a bit sorry for Toppy. Of course, her situation is mostly of her own making (she could totally go and become a surfing instructor in Bali - there's nothing stopping her but her own fears), but it's a bit of a tricky situation to be in regardless.  
I do think we still like Tatty, or at least I hope so. I see her as someone who's super nice and helpful when she likes someone, but somewhat moody and judgemental when she dislikes someone. She's still mostly a nice person, but everyone has some not-so-nice sides and this is hers. And in fairness, I believe Toppy wasn't blameless when it came to creating that shared animosity. Those two just don't see eye to eye.  
Oh no! Ken's friends don't all date his ex-girlfriends. I believe Hew and Toppy are a first. Mark is mostly alluding to the fact that Ken's friends are used to him coming first. Hew probably has an idea that Toppy still has some lingering feelings for Ken, but he learned early on that if in doubt, Ken is more important than anyone else and that there's no use resenting that. That's why he can live with Toppy's prevailing feelings for Ken specifically, whereas I don't think he could have lived with them if it was, say, Mark, instead of Ken. It's just a mark of how being friends with a price is slightly different than being friends with Joe Average. You make sacrifice you otherwise wouldn't make.  
The review was perfectly fine :). And I know all about busy! My life's pretty crazy right now and I keep thinking I might have to put the story on hold until things have calmed down again, but then I read all of your lovely comments and they're a large part of what keeps me going. They remind me that this is fun and I shouldn't let the craziness beat out the things I actually enjoy. And so, we soldier on ;).  
_


	61. The wounds from lovers past

_London, England  
January 2014_

 **The wounds from lovers past**

I shouldn't do this to myself.

I really, _really_ shouldn't do this to myself.

And yet, here I am – doing it anyway.

The ads have been running almost on loop for an entire week now and despite trying my hardest to ignore them, I think I always knew, deep down, that when it came to it, I'd be watching. Well, it has come to it now and watch it I do.

George sits next to me on the bet, loaf-style, and looks around the room dispassionately. After the first few weeks of raging against our new living situation, he seems to have resigned himself to the status quo. He isn't actively mad at me anymore, nor does he try to escape the apartment by any means possible, but I'd be fooling myself if I pretended he was the same spirited, adventurous cat he used to be. I tried taking him out on a leash, but he hated that even more, so we're back to the uneasy arrangement that I still, somehow, hope will be temporary. I mean, surely, we won't be stuck here _forever_?

Sighing, I reach out to stroke his back. He turns his head to stare at me, but otherwise shows no sign of reaction or appreciation.

Not wanting to bother him, I draw my hand back and shift to sit more comfortably on the bed. My laptop, which is doubling as a TV for monetary reasons, sits on my legs, its underside already a little hot to the touch. (I should be probably get it replaced, but for that to be possible, Marcia would have to give me a raise and the likelihood of _that_ happening is slim to non-existent.)

On the screen, the show's intro is starting to play, so I take the laptop off mute and brace for the worst.

The show's annoying jingle fills the air and as if on cue, my phone beeps to join the chorus. I consider ignoring it, but then reach out for it anyway. It's a message from Ken, surprisingly enough.

 _Don't watch it, please. You know it's all drivel and lies. Don't let them get to you. I'll call you when I have the chance._

Only that chance won't arise until the day after tomorrow or even later. He was vague about details, but from what I caught, they're starting on a multi-day training mission tonight. He must have texted me just before leaving.

Still.

I close the message without answering it and put the phone on silent before throwing it to the other side of the bed. (George glares at me and gets up, stalking over to the window and settling down on the sill, staring outside with what I presume to be longing.)

On the laptop screen, the TV studio appears and the camera zooms in on the two hosts. The man has his hair puffed and coifed in a way very reminiscent of the 1950s, and the woman wears a rather garish red-and-purple dress. (Seriously, whoever thought red and purple were a good combination ought to have their head examined!) Not that my catty thoughts can at all protect me against what's to come, but at least they give me a grim sort of satisfaction. I might have made mistakes in my life, but I never wore a dress that clashed with _itself_ and I certainly never tried to impersonate Elvis _ever_.

"Welcome and thank you for tuning in to our hotly anticipated special, live from our studio in London!" chirps the woman.

"Today is all about a girl whose face is instantly recognisable, but whose past has so far been shrouded in mystery," continues the man brightly.

I scoff. 'Mystery' makes it sound rather much more interesting than it was. (I should know. I was there.)

"Please join us as we take a closer look at none other than royal girlfriend Rilla Blythe!" invites the woman, beaming at the camera. (Her teeth are unnaturally white.)

I would very much like to throw something at her face, please.

On the studio screen behind them appears a large photo of me looking pensive as I sit in a café of some sort. (If I had to guess, I'd say the photo dates back to the Oxford days.) The man turns to look at the camera, suddenly very serious indeed. "Doesn't she look just like the quintessential girl next door?" he asks rhetorically.

"That's what we all thought," chimes in the woman, looking mournful. "Perhaps a bit bland and vapid, but ultimately a nice girl."

Bland?

 _Vapid_?

I'm already bristling and they haven't even gotten to the real issue of their so-called 'TV special'.

"Recent discoveries, however, have forced us to question our view of Rilla Blythe," announces the man. "Far from being the peppy, innocent girl we thought her to be, it seems she has a hidden past more than worthy of our attention."

(Could they _stop_ calling me 'girl', please?)

"One of her conquest has recently spoken out about the 'good time' they had during a spring break trip to Mexico." The woman actually makes air quotes around 'good time'. "Let's hear again what he has to say, before we take a closer look at the other men in her life."

The TV studio disappears from the screen, to be replaced by a close-up of the face of none other than Chad Johnson – Mexico Guy.

For the past two weeks, snippets and soundbites of his Christmas Day interview have positively haunted me. Not as day passed when I wasn't confronted with what he said and not a day passed when I haven't hated him for it.

Sure, everyone told me not to watch and certainly not to _re_ -watch, but that's easy for _them_ to say, isn't it? They're not the one being ripped apart for the entire world to see. I mean, I tried not to pay any attention, tried to ignore it as best as I could, but it seems even my ability to turn a blind eye is limited.

Yes, I saw it. The entire interview. Several times. (There might have been one particular horrible night when I watched it on repeat, over and over again, until my eyes were puffy and my head hurt and I wouldn't have been surprised if Mexico Guy himself had suddenly materialised in my dingy, crappy apartment as if by some stroke of particularly dark magic.)

Bottom line is, I saw it and I saw it often enough to know every line by heart. (Weird thing is, it's always as bad as the first time. Somehow, it never fades.)

Therefore, I'm not at all surprised when TV-Chad opens his mouth and the following words come out: "Yo, I mean, she was hot, right? Really fit and really good pins. I watched her dance and thought, 'Chad, you'd tap that.' So, uh, I tapped it."

I resist the urge to hide my face in my hands. What was I _thinking_?

"I said to myself, 'Chad, better be chi– chiv– better be a gentleman.' I bought her a beer, right? And not the cheap Mexican beer! I sprung for the foreign kind that cost a dollar more. Had to get some for her friends, too. Chicks always hang around in group, have you noticed? I don't know why that is. Do you know why that is?" TV-Chad looks expectantly at the interviewer, as if he truly wants that question answered.

It's not rocket science to figure out. But then, it's evident that poor Chad really isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, this interview being exhibit A. (Honestly, my only excuse is that I must have been drunker than I thought. I have no other explanation.)

On the screen, the interviewer has nudged Chad back on track to continue his story. "Uh, right. Yeah, so I bought her a beer. She smiled at me and I thought, 'Chad, you want to find out what else she can do with those lips.' We danced and I showed off some of my killer moves. I have some really sick moves. You wanna see them?"

The interviewer politely declines and if I didn't hate him so much for obvious reasons, I'd be impressed with how patient he is. Interviewing Chad must be some kind of professional nightmare. Or it would be, if it wasn't such a scoop. I mean, let's be honest, to the TV execs, Chad turning up from wherever he's been hiding must have felt like their wet dreams coming true.

"So, we danced, right? I knew my moves impressed her. It's how I charm all the ladies. She was very sexy, very hot. Moved her hips and put her arms around me. I grinded into her a bit and she let me, so I said to myself, 'Chad, you stud, you'll tap that tonight.' And I did!" He grins triumphantly.

I just want to die.

How _could_ I?

Rationally, I know I should be focusing on the impact of this. On the press reaction, which has been both lethal and gleeful in equal parts, and on what the public thinks, not to mention my family and friends – and _Ken's_ family and friends, too. I should be looking at the bigger picture and try to figure out the long-term consequences. Part of me does that, too. But the more petty part is just really, _really_ embarrassed I ever slept with that man, inebriated or not.

Thankfully, that seems to be enough for the 'TV special' to prove its point, because instead of showing the rest of Chad's interview, they cut back into the studio.

Of course, knowing it by heart, I know there's quite a bit more than they showed today. There's him putting words into my mouth I'd _never_ say (who ever even uses 'snake' in that context in real life anyway?) and describing some acrobatic happenings that I'm _sure_ neither of us was in any state to actually perform. He even goes so far as to claim that I begged him to stay the next morning, when I know for a fact that I sneaked out as quiet as possible, equal parts horrified and disgusted, praying to whatever God that he wouldn't wake. That that one night stand _stayed_ a one night stand was certainly not because Chad felt he wasn't ready to tie himself down yet!

I'm spared the embarrassment of having to live through those parts again though and I _would_ be grateful, if hadn't resolved to wish a very slow and painful death on whoever had anything to do with these things. The Chad interview. The TV special. Everything. Oh, if only I could make them suffer the way they're making me suffer!

Alas, not to be.

Especially as, even though the Chad interview was cut short, the TV special itself doesn't appear to be over yet. Apparently, they have even more tortures to inflict upon me.

"When we first heard what the young man had to say, suffice to say we were all quite shocked," declares the male presenter.

" _Shocked_!" repeats the woman, nodding seriously.

"In two weeks, our feelings of surprise and, for some, discomfort have hardly abated," continues the man, looking straight into the camera with an expression that spells understanding for all those discomforted by my love life.

(Why do they _care_ anyway?)

"That's not all though!" announces the woman, looking suitably scandalised. "As we will learn today, Rilla Blythe did not only willingly and recklessly sleep with a man she didn't know at all, she did something much more serious and some might say, more worrying for our much admired future king."

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

They _can't_!

They can't _possibly_ …

"It appears," adds the man, utterly merciless, "that when Rilla Blythe had her encounter with Chad Johnson in Mexico, she also had a boyfriend waiting for her in New York."

No!

They weren't supposed to know about this.

They weren't supposed to find out.

They were _not_!

(And yet, somehow, they did.)

"At the time, Rilla, then a first-year student at NYU, was dating a law student called Eric Reese," explains the woman. Behind her, a photo of Eric appears. He looks older and more distinguished in his suit, but it's unmistakably him.

I feel faintly sick.

"Sources say they broke up shortly afterwards, which we can only assume was because of Rilla's transgression," speculates the man. (Not wrongly, vexingly enough.)

The woman nods gravely. "These revelations also raise the valid questions about Rilla's current relationship with Prince Kenneth."

"It does indeed," agrees the man. "Up and down the country people will wonder whether they need to be worried for their favourite prince – and whether he, too, will walk away from this so-called relationship with a broken heart?"

How –

How _dare_ they?

(I can hardly think straight.)

"Though Prince Kenneth might be spared a similar treatment simply because of who he is. After all, there are rumours that poor Eric was simply deemed 'not good enough' by a girl on the lookout for something more _exalted_ ," instigates the woman. "Even then, he was, by all accounts, a catch, being both handsome and kind and at the cusp of a successful law career. Given her track record, however, one can't wonder whether he didn't meet Rilla Blythe's standards."

Okay. Now I feel more than just faintly sick.

I feel…

I feel like crying.

But at the same time, I'm too exhausted to even cry. It's all just hollow.

It's so odd, too. How anyone can think that kind, generous, caring Eric was not good enough for me… it's laughable. Almost as absurd as anyone seriously thinking I'd ever cheat on Ken. I mean, anyone who knows me –

But that's it. These people _don't_ know me. They might have information about me, but they don't _know_ me!

(Doesn't stop them from pretending they do, though.)

"We've known about her teenage sweetheart for a while now." The man points to the big studio screen, where Eric's photo is currently being replaced by one of Carl. "Carl Meredith is the minister's son from the rural village on Prince Edward Island, where the Blythes own a holiday home."

"Of course, as many are aware, Carl turned from well-behaved minister's son into quite an eco-activist." The woman raises two well-plucked eyebrows. Behind her, another picture of Carl appears on the screen. It shows him at a demonstration of some sort, brandishing a large banner. Next to him is a woman with purple hair, holding a megaphone. (Might that be the mysterious Kara?)

I make a mental note to apologise to Carl. I know how he dislikes being dragged into this whole 'royal circus' as he called it last summer.

(It's quickly becoming a habit, me apologising to people for inadvertently dragging them into the madness that is my life.)

"Whether Rilla knew even then that Carl Meredith would never be able to keep her in the style she craved or whether she simply grew bored of him, we don't know. But we do know she broke it off before leaving for Europe after graduating high school," summarises the man – wrongly, of course, but then, they're getting so much wrong that it's hardly surprising.

Sighing, I shake my head. (Has it really gotten so far that I can't even get worked up about something like this anymore?)

"In Europe, she clearly had her cap set for bigger fish," claims the woman. "And for a while, it must have looked to her like she had caught one."

So, they found him, too, did they?

With a sinking feeling, I watch as Carl and Kara get replaced by a shot of Alain, looking disdainfully down his nose at the cameras.

"You'd be forgiven for thinking Alain de la Bruyère was a hero right from the pages of a romance novel," continues the woman and is it just me or has her voice just become a little gushing? "Tall, good-looking, aristocratic, rich, well-connected and _French_ , he is everything Rilla Blythe must have been looking for."

Yeah, right. As if I was on the lookout for _Alain_! I mean, does anyone ever set out to get their heart broken?

"Alain de la Bruyère refused to be interviewed for this segment, as did Carl Meredith and Eric Reese," explains the man. (I send a silent thank you to all three of them.) "It means we can only speculate what drove him and Rilla apart after what was, by all accounts, a charged and passionate Paris love affair, but rumour has it that she just wasn't able to lure him in permanently."

 _Lure him in_?

They're really setting out to make me look like some sort of man-eater, aren't they?

(I'm increasingly thinking a slow and painful death might still be too good for them. I'm imagining something more along the lines of… who was the guy who had his organ picked out by some sort of bird for all eternity? That sounds like a splendid idea!)

"Apparently, it all ended in tears on Rilla's side." The woman does not at all look like she feels sorry for me. "And no wonder! Alain would have been a great catch for a small-town girl from far-off Canada."

 _Small-town girl_?

Halifax has almost half a million inhabitants!

Don't these people do _research_?

(They do, sadly. How else could they know all this? I mean, this is some sort of weird _Killing Me Softly_ -situation, where they're spreading out all my secrets for the world to see – and there's absolutely nothing I can do.)

"By the time she re-crossed the Atlantic to start her studies at NYU, Rilla seemed to have licked most of her wounds though," remarks the man. "Eric Reese might have been a temporary distraction, probably to help her re-built her confidence, but after having rid herself of him, she was quickly on the prowl again."

Frowning, I shake my head. This isn't right, is it? Between Alain and Eric, there was Jorge. Jorge, whose brief role in my life rightfully should be catnip to the press. After all, in the past two weeks, they _loved_ playing up the angle of me having casual, reckless sex with strangers. My Lisbon weekend fits neatly into that picture. They'd _never_ pass up on it!

Except… except if they don't know.

Can that be?

Can it be that this one part of my love life might actually still be private?

(I feel a strange sense of triumph rise in me. It's nonsensical, given how much else they found out, but they didn't get _everything_ and that's something to focus on in what is otherwise a situation really too awful for words.)

In my confusion, I missed the beginning of what the woman said, but tune back in for the important part. "– but this time, it was through what we can only assume was a calculated friendship with a daughter of one of America's oldest family's that Rilla met her next conquest. It was none other than Tristan Fairfax, descendant from a Mayflower settler and therefore, practically American royalty of his own!"

On the screen, Tristan's face appears and at first, I think it's a picture, too, only – only it's _moving_. Not a picture, then.

(Moron!)

"Uh, yes. We dated for, um, almost a year," Screen-Tristan stutters. (He's usually more eloquent than that, but then, he usually doesn't have his mother and his sister hovering at his elbows.) "She was, uh, sweet? Funny. Very pretty. We had a lot of fun, but it wasn't, um, anything permanent."

Yes, you allowed Mummy take care of that, didn't you?

(Idiot.)

He's allowing Mummy to take care of it now, too, because Mrs Fairfax muscles into the foreground. Clearly, she's unhappy with her offspring's handling of the matter. "Rilla Blythe was a… a _nice_ girl, but ultimately, there was no doubt that she would be but a temporary episode in my sons's life. In a family like ours, we have standards to uphold and she did not meet them, nice though she was. I'm sure the royal family will understand that as well, with time."

What the…?

That horrible, odious, arrogant, scheming _harpy_!

Spluttering in indignation, I stare at the screen, where Mrs Fairfax looks very smug and self-righteous and Yseult nods like some especially moronic bobblehead. (Tristan has the decency to look uncomfortable.)

At least they don't appear to have anything else to say. Their image freezes on the studio screen and the camera focuses back on the two presenters.

"Certainly a very thought-provoking assessment from members of a very distinguished American family," opinions the woman. (Ha! As _if_!)

She looks over at the man, obviously expecting him to take over. He, however, has a finger pressed to his ear piece, apparently receiving instructions or information or something from the director.

"I've just heard that we have… we have a caller," he explains, sounding confused. "He asked to be put through directly to the studio."

The woman frowns at him. Looks like this is unusual.

I wonder who –

"Good evening," sounds a voice over the studio loudspeakers. A vaguely familiar voice...

"My name is Eric Reese," continues the voice. "You talked about me a few minutes ago."

 _Eric_!

My God, _yes_! It _is_ Eric!

But what…?

How…?

"Good evening, Eric," greets the man, beaming into the nearest camera. "We're so happy to have you with us! Did you call to shed some light on –"

"I did," interrupts Eric. (Unusual. I don't remember him to be the type to interrupt anyone ever.) "I wanted to let it be known that Rilla did not cheat on me at any point in our relationship. We mutually agreed to end our relationship before she left for Mexico. She was, therefore, single and in no way bound to me during that trip or anytime afterwards."

That –

That is a lie.

That is absolutely and categorically untrue.

On the screen, the two presenters exchange a confused glance. I feel as dumbstruck as they look.

"Let me further state that Rilla Blythe is a very nice, caring and kind woman," continues Eric. "We parted ways because we were at different stages in live and for no other reason. I thank you to report it as such in the future."

(Suffice to say that that, too, is a lie.)

"Eric!" calls out the woman, sensing that Eric has said his piece and is about to slip through her fingers. "Eric, if you would just –"

But the only answer is the beeping sound of the dial tone. Eric hung up. (And the presenters lost what could have been their prime witness. Serves them right!)

"Ah." The man blinks. "That was… that was certainly a… a surprising development." He's clearly grappling for his wits and I'd watch, if only to see him squirm, but I have more important things to do.

Putting the laptop on mute and setting it aside, I stretch to pick up my phone from where it lies next to my pillow. A quick glance tells me that I have several missed calls and even more messages, all from family and friends (I spy Seraphina threatening to kill her aunt, Shirley offering to somehow take Chad's computer ransom and Dev telling me to keep my head high and be fabulous), but for the time being, I don't pay them any attention.

(To be honest, while I know they want to be supportive, it means they all _saw_ it and somehow, I wish they hadn't.)

With flying fingers, I do a quick google search. When it turns up the desired result, I type the number into my phone. My hands, I notice, are shaking.

"Stoddard and Candlewick," chirps a female voice down the receiver.

"Good evening," I greet. (Or is it still afternoon in Madison, Wisconsin?) "I'd like to speak to Eric Reese, please."

"Mr Reese doesn't speak to the press," responds the woman primly, all cheer gone from her voice.

Sensing that she's about to hang up, I call out, "I'm not a reporter. I'm… I'm an old friend."

"They all say that," argues the woman.

Quick! Think of something, Rilla!

"Bugs Bunny socks," I blurt out.

A beat on the other end. " _Excuse me_?"

I can't even blame her.

"Bugs Bunny socks," I repeat. "Tell him that, please. He'll know."

At least I _hope_ he will.

I can feel the woman's disdain radiating down the line, but she obliges and puts me on hold, hopefully to contact Eric.

A minute or so passes and just when I think the annoying, jingling hold-music will drive me mad, there's another voice. "Bugs Bunny socks?"

Eric!

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" I reply.

He laughs. "Apparently so. Though I remember you weren't so happy with me when I gave them to you. For a moment, I thought you would cry."

"For a moment, I almost _did_ cry," I admit openly, smiling to myself. "Our first Christmas and you give me _Bugs Bunny socks_?"

"I thought it would be funny," mutters Eric and I can tell that he's a little embarrassed, even five years later.

"I know you did," I assure him, laughing. "I know you genuinely found them funny, too. It's just… God, Eric, you're definitely the nicest boyfriend I ever had, but you also have the dorkiest sense of humour."

I can hear him chuckle. "That's what my wife says."

"You're married!" I exclaim.

"Uh, yes," he replies. "Leyla and I got married three years ago. We have a little girl, Amina."

"That's great!" And I really, truly mean it. I fled his vision of a picket fence-future (and treated him abysmally while doing so), but I never begrudged him his happiness and I always wished him well.

(And, truth to be told, there are moments, dark and brief, when I find myself wondering whether the picket fence-life doesn't hold a certain kind of appeal, after all. And whether I wouldn't have been happy living it, in the end.)

"Thanks. We live a pretty ordinary life, but we're happy." I can sense Eric hesitating. "Whereas your life took a rather…"

"Surprising turn?" I supply when he breaks off.

"Ah, yes. Surprising is right," he confirms.

It leads us directly back to the elephant in the room and I decide to tackle it headfirst.

"I actually called to thank you," I tell him. "That was… You needn't have done that. Lie like that for me."

"I know," replies Eric calmly. "I just couldn't listen to them anymore. I wasn't sure whether it was alright with you that I called in –"

"More than alright!" I interject.

"– but I had to do something to stop it. For one, I didn't care for the way they were talking about me and I don't really want to forever be remembered as the man betrayed by the prince's girlfriend," admits Eric bluntly. "For another… that's character assassination, Rilla. There's no other way of putting it."

I sigh, but don't say anything.

"Look, I hope I'm not overstepping a line here, but you really should do something against all that," continues Eric, now more cautious. "Do you have a lawyer?"

"No." I shake my head, even though he can't see it. "We sent out some legal letters last years when they harassed my family too much, but apparently, I'm a public persona now. They're allowed to report about me."

"Perhaps." He still sounds sceptical. "But even people in the public eye have human rights, you know."

Do they?

Colour me surprised.

I suppress another sigh. "It's nice of you to care, but…"

"But it's none of my business," finishes Eric, understandingly. "I know."

"Sorry. And thank you. For, you know…" I trail off.

"You're welcome," he replies, sounding like he means it. "I hope it helps, even a little bit."

Yes. So do I.

God knows so do I.

(Suddenly, the call has turned awkward.)

"Thanks again," I repeat, unnecessarily. "And… I wish you all the best. Truly, I do."

"You, too, Rilla." A beat. "And good luck."

Yes. Looks like I'll need it.

The call ends and I lower the phone, staring down at the comforter covering my bed. The brief feeling of elation I felt at Eric's defence leaves me in a single breath. What remains is a feeling of… resignation.

I'm grateful to Eric, I truly am, but – but when it's all said and done, he isn't the man I want defending me.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'And So It Goes' (written_ _by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Well... let's say it's_ one _of the bombs. But yes, I wasn't going to give Rilla a potentially controversial love life and then not use it. Where would have been the fun in that? ;)  
For once though, I don't think Owen including that picture with Rilla was a big deal between Owen and Ken. Had Rilla been front and centre, Ken might have objected, fearing it would put too much pressure on her. But he respects his father as a professional and he knows that Owen plays the PR game really well. So, even if he wasn't consulted, I'd say he knew to take this for what it was - Owen showing his support for Rilla and for her relationship with Ken. On the whole, that's a good thing and while Ken has been known to be pretty thick on occasion, I believe he gets this.  
I like Shirley, too! We know so little about it, but he's always among those of Rilla's siblings I return to most often. I even pledged there'd be less Shirley and more Walter in this story, and look how badly that turned out. I just like Shirley so much better! (Whereas Walter... look, I'm sure he's a nice fellow, but he and I don't connect. I don't understand him.)  
As for the "googling yourself", my theory is that most famous people fall in one of two camps. There are those who religiously google their own names and keep up with everything written about them. And then there are those who try to ignore it as much as possible and only engage when they have to. I know which behaviour I find healthier and though Rilla is bungling some parts of her life, I agree with her decision not to look at the press unless she has to. I mean, it's bad enough as it is.  
I'm thinking Marcia's company was employed to organise the engagement party before Rilla started working there. Parties of this scale take a while to set up and Rilla hasn't been working there for long, so that was mostly just an annoying coincidence. As for Marcia herself, she probably didn't realise Hew and Toppy would be known to Rilla, so she just did her usual spiel of sending Rilla to her most high-profile parties. Even if she isn't actually paid extra for her attendance, having Rilla there garners press and that press is likely to mention the company she works for. I can most definitely promise you that neither Hew nor Toppy paid extra money to have Rilla do the waitressing. They're not _that _mean.  
In Germany, we haven't had a royal family since the Kaiser abdicated in 1918, but the Hohenzollerns are still about. They're currently suing the state to have art and property returned to them (worth several hundred millions). They say it's there private property, but it does make you wonder how that private property was acquired back in the 18th and 19th centuries... Let's just say I'm fine with them minding their own business, but I'm not a supporter of that particular court case.  
Poland is such a beautiful country! I went to Warsaw some years ago and I so, _so _want to visit Krakow one day! I hear it's one of the most beautiful cities. (I imagine it to be a bit like Prague, which is also gorgeous. I could be wrong about any similarities, but I'm resolved to find out.)  
_

 _To Mammu:_  
 _As you can see, Mexico Guy wasn't the only one to make an appearance. I dare say it's not the last we see of Rilla's various ex-boyfriends either, but as Eric demonstrated, it doesn't_ always _have to be dire. Not all of her ex-boyfriends are idiots.  
Ken ripped up Rilla's list about her past relationships (thereby, I think, implying that he wouldn't share the information he read), so the palace isn't aware of every man Rilla ever slept with. I do believe they probably checked out the known boyfriends (Carl, Eric, Tristan, maybe Alain), but wouldn't have been aware of Chad and still aren't aware of Jorge. There might be some pearl-clutching happening over at the palace right now, but I do believe Ken's actual family won't hold it against Rilla. They, more than anyone, know what the press intrusion feels like and they know better than to hold something she did years ago against her.  
Ken's in a bit of a pickle right now. He can't just interrupt his training, so to go to Rilla right now, he'd either have to drop out completely or ask for preferential treatment. The press would crucify him for both and what's more, they'd blame it on Rilla, making things worse for her. Those "Moaning Mitzi makes hen-pecked prince give up his military dream"-headlines would just write themselves. I'm not saying staying away is the right course of action in this, but he is caught between a rock and a hard place a bit.  
If you did stay up, I hope this chapter was worth it ;).  
_


	62. Please don't tell them how you found me

_London, England  
February 2014_

 **Please don't tell them how you found me**

Sighing, I hang the dress back on the rack. It's nice, but until it gets discounted, it's a little above my price range. I'll keep an eye on it for the next few weeks, but right now, buying it isn't an option.

The problem with me and clothes is that I get _judged_ for what I wear. Liberally. There are whole newspaper columns dedicated to what I'm wearing and entire blogs dedicated to chronicling every article of clothing I ever put on. It's creepy and it's annoying and it means I've long stopped wearing what _I_ want to wear.

There's never pleasing some people, but for the majority of them, I've figured out an approach that keeps most of the critics silent. The cardinal rule is never to wear anything too short or too revealing. Brands should ideally be British or else Canadian. Too much American fashion or, God forbid, _French_ , and I get chided for not supporting the British clothes industry. When I wear something too expensive, they call me a spendthrift, but when I buy something cheap and mass produced, I get lectured on national TV about the poor Bangladeshi children having to do 18-hour shifts in factories. (Which is devastating and should be stopped, don't get me wrong. But what's betting that the very people criticising me for it are also wearing clothes made in those very same factories? Hypocrites, that's what they are.)

Taking all of that into account, there are about a dozen brands I can wear relatively safely. The problem is, most of those deemed to be in an acceptable price bracket for me are actually much too expensive for someone on a mediocre wage having to pay rent on a flat near London. This even more so as I also have to rotate my clothing regularly and add in new pieces often if I don't want them to call me boring and question my fashion sense. I have, accordingly, turned the hunting of bargains and scouring of second hand shops into a fine art, supplementing my finds with items borrowed from Katie and Tatty.

All of which is to say, I can't buy this dress today.

Shouldering my handbag, I nod at the shop assistant with the sour face and turn for the door. I step outside –

And I'm blinded by the flashes going off.

"Rilla!" "Rilla, here!" "Any comment, Rilla?" "Who leaked the photos, Rilla?" "Rilla, look here!" "Over here, Rilla!"

Blinking against the sudden brightness, I lower my head and try to collect my bearing. Deep breath. Try to focus.

I can't see well with the bright spots dancing in front of my eyes and the cameras flashing mercilessly, but gauging from the volume of the voices shouting at me, I estimate about 20 or 25 photographers.

That's a lot, even for me.

Something has happened.

Gripping my handbag tighter and bowing my head some more, I try to slip away to the side, where the throng seems to be not as deep. Usually, after having gotten a few good shots, the photographers back away a little and allow me to leave (if, sometimes, to follow me), but today is different.

They stand, unmoving, shoving their cameras into my face and shouting my name.

Like a wall.

I try to push forward, but they push back. They push me backwards, until I can feel the handle of the shop door press into my back. Wherever I look, there's a dark mass of people surrounding me, and flashing, flashing. The shouts ring in my ears, something about photos (what photos?) and my name on constant repeat. Rilla, Rilla, Rilla.

There's nowhere to go.

I feel panic rising within me.

Feebly raising my hands, I try to move, looking for an outing, any kind of gap, but it's no use. Futile. They form an impenetrable mass and they're not budging.

I'm caught.

They're too close.

Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the shouts. My breath comes in shallow gasps. I think I'm shaking.

I'm panicking and there's nowhere to go.

Nowhere, except –

Back.

Reaching behind me, I wrench open the door and stumble back into the shop. There's a surge among the photographers and for a second, I fear they might follow me, but they don't. Instead, they press against the glass doors, the cameras still clicking and flashing. Even after the door has shut, I can still hear them shouting.

Rilla, Rilla, Rilla.

My own name is starting to sound strange to me. Like it's somehow wrong, like the letters are out of order, like it doesn't make proper sense anymore. It's like even my name has lost its meaning.

Rilla, Rilla, Rilla.

Just meaningless sounds.

My back turned to the door, I stand in the middle of the shop, breathing heavily.

The assistant with the sour face raises an over-plucked eyebrow.

"Forgot something," I mumble at her. Grabbing some random clothes off a rack, I head for the fitting room in the back of the shop.

I just want to hide.

Only when the curtain has fallen shut behind me, do I breathe a little easier. It makes no sense, of course, because it's not like a piece of cloth can in any way protect me, but suddenly, the smallness of the cubicle feels comforting. At least here, I'm alone.

Alone to find out what the matter is.

Because something must be the matter.

I sit down heavily on the little stool in the corner of the fitting room. With shaking fingers, I get my phone from my bag and type my own name into the search bar. I've gone off googling myself, but in moments like these, it's the best way to get information quickly.

And I'm not disappointed.

It's the very first entry in the 'news' section.

 _Brief Encounters – What Ken Truly Sees in Stripper-Rilla_

I think I might be sick.

I don't want to, I _desperately_ don't want to, but I click on the article anyway. Immediately, I'm transported to the online presence of one of the British rags that so love tearing me apart.

There's not a lot of text, but there doesn't need to be. The pictures make up for it. Do they ever make up for it!

If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, this article must be priceless. (To the so-called newspaper, I bet it is.)

Objectively speaking, the pictures are bad quality. They're all grainy and most of them are either overexposed or too dark. They were clearly taken with a long lens through a window.

My window.

All of the pictures show me in the crappy Croydon flat. The more harmless ones simply have me sitting on the bed or standing in the kitchen. That alone would be bad enough, especially as the different outfits tell me they must have been taken over the course of days, even weeks. They have nothing on the other pictures though. Me in various stages of undress. Not completely naked, thank God (I never did like walking around starkers, even when alone), but there are several photos of me in my underwear and two with just a towel wrapped around my body.

I lower the phone.

There's bile in my mouth and my breath comes out to fast. I'm hyperventilating. My cheeks are wet. I might be crying. I think I am.

My phone dials Ken's number without me being aware of actually having made any motion to call him. It's just… I'm stuck and I'm panicking and they took pictures _through my bloody apartment window_ and… I want him. I want him here and I want him to make it go away.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

Rationally, I should have known this would happen, but as I listen to the brief message, his voice doesn't comfort me like it usually does. Instead, there's something bubbling up within me, something hot and bitter. Anger, I think, and hurt, and… betrayal?

Because he's up there in Scotland enjoying himself and I'm down here, not enjoying myself _at all_ , and the least thing he could do is pick up the phone when I really, really need him. And I need him now.

Dropping the phone in my lap, I hide my face in my hands. I try to calm my breathing, try to calm my racing heart, but it's no use. Because what it all boils down to is that I'm caught in this fitting room. I can't go outside, can't face the mob again, not now that I know what they know. But I can't stay here either, because my little sanctuary is but temporary.

I need help.

But who to call?

Think rationally, Rilla. And breathe.

I'd try Persis, but she's at some kind of equestrian training camp with the rest of the British eventing team. Teddy is up in Edinburgh, studying. None of my friends have returned to London yet and they wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. Nor, let's be honest, would Ken's friends. To control the mob out there, I need someone with more authority, someone like…

"Rilla! How nice of you to call."

The moment I hear Owen's voice, I start to sob.

"He-hello. I… I'm… I'm sorry to… to bo-bo-bother… you," I manage to get out.

"Rilla?" He sounds seriously alarmed. "What happened? Where are you?"

And that's when it all comes tumbling out of me. "These photographers, they're… I'm in a shop, hiding – hiding in the fitting room. They're outside and they won't let me… they won't let me _leave_. They're crowding around me and – shouting. And they have these pictures and they're just _awful_ and I… I don't know what to do. I don't know what to _do_." I can't say anything else after that, because I'm overcome by sobs.

On the other end of the line, Owen makes soothing sounds, waiting for me to collect myself somewhat. Suffice to say, it takes a while.

When the sobs have turned to hiccups and the tears don't spill as fast anymore, Owen asks carefully, "Can you tell me where you are?"

I give him the name and general location of the shop. Moments later, I can hear him repeat the information to someone else, his voice sounding slightly muffled.

"Rilla?" he asks, after having returned to the phone. "Can you do something for me?"

"I guess," I sniffle.

"Just stay where you are. Don't go outside. If the shop people grow impatient with you, buy something and we'll take care of the cost. Someone will be with you as soon as possible. Wait until they come to get you," Owen instructs. "Is that alright?"

I nod, before remembering that he can't see it. "Yes. Yes, that would be… very nice."

"Marvellous." I think I can hear him smiling. "And chin up. There's nothing we can't solve."

I wish I felt as confident as he does.

But I've already bothered him enough, so I don't say that. Instead I thank him, allow him to reassure me once more that everything will be fine, and end the call. Looking down at the now dark screen of my phone, I feel some of the pressure lift from my shoulders. Someone else is taking care of things. I don't have to do this alone.

(Owen's not the someone I would have wanted to support me at this moment, but as there's literally no chance of Ken calling back before evening, he's all there is. And it _is_ awfully nice of him to help me like this, no questions asked.)

Thankfully, the shop assistant with the sour face leaves me be (I'm pretty sure my credit card would be declined if I attempted to buy anything) and no-one else bothers me either. Therefore, for the next twenty or so minutes, I simply stay in the fitting room and try not to work myself into a panic again – with mediocre success.

Finally, I can see the curtain flutter slightly, but not open. Moments later, I hear Hanson's voice. "Miss? Are you in there?"

"Yes." I clear my throat. "Yes, I'm here."

I take a look into the mirror and sigh inwardly. I'm much too pale and my eyes are too puffy to deny that I've been crying. My mascara is smudged as well, and I angrily rub at it until it's no longer coating half my face. It's not exactly _good_ , but I guess it'll have to do.

Collecting my bag and slipping my phone inside, I get up and open the curtain. Outside stands Hanson, his expression sympathetic. Behind him, I spy several more men I take to be PPOs. The shop assistant with the sour face stares at them, even forgetting to look sour.

"Shall we?" asks Hanson and smiles encouragingly.

I take a deep breath and nod. "Yes. Let's go."

As we move towards the door, the other PPOs fall in around us. I spy Beckett and Beaverstock (with Ken securely ensconced at his air force station, I guess there's not a lot to do for his protection detail at the moment), plus three men I don't recognise. There's a serious-looking tall one that seems to be giving orders to the others, but while he looks vaguely familiar, I can't fully place him.

Outside the door, the number of photographers appears to have doubled. I recoil instinctively.

Hanson places a protective arm around my shoulders. The other men form a tight circle around us. (Is this what it feels like to Ken and Owen and the others?)

"Keep your head down," advises Hanson quietly. "There's a car parked right behind the paps. There's a driver at the wheel, so we'll bundle you inside and then take off immediately."

"Okay," I murmur back.

One of the other men throws open the shop door and immediately, the shouting and the flashing starts again. Only this time, I'm not facing them alone. I just keep my head down, grip my handbag tight and allow Hanson to steer me, while the PPOs around us muscle the way free. Most of the photographers know better than to get in their way and retreat of their own accord, but the less clever ones get shoved to the side none too gently.

Once the throng has backed off somewhat, I see a sleek dark car parked on the curb. One of the PPOs in our group moves ahead a few steps to open the door and Hanson guides me to climb inside it. He follows me, the door is thrown shut and the car starts moving immediately.

It's a lot like well-oiled machinery, to be honest. It would be impressive to watch if it weren't quite so surreal.

"How are you?" asks Hanson as he settles on the seat behind the driver. I drop my handbag on the middle seat and buckle myself up automatically. Hanson, I can't help notice, doesn't so much glance at his own seat belt. (Might be a PPO thing.)

"I'm…" I hesitate. "I'm okay. I think. Bit shaken."

"Understandably." He nods. "They can get quite rabid. I imagine Reed stayed behind to give them a little warning."

"Who?" I ask. The name doesn't ring any bell.

"Reed. The tall one giving out orders," explains Hanson. "He's head of His Majesty's security detail."

I look at him in surprise. "He's… Really?"

Hanson shrugs, then grins. "He sent out the cavalry for you."

Well… it would appear so.

I settle back into the cushy leather seat and briefly close my eyes, letting out a long breath. "Thank you," I tell Hanson, still with my eyes closed. "For, you know…"

"Anytime," he replies. A pause, before he adds, more quietly, "Probably was _about_ time, too."

That sounded almost like a jibe and I open an eye to glance at him. But he's looking down at his phone, giving no indication of what he's thinking, and I don't pry.

Instead, I ask, "Where are we going?"

"His Majesty asked us to take you to Buckingham Palace," answers Hanson, pocketing his phone. "Unless you'd rather go somewhere else?"

I consider the question briefly, before shaking my head. "No, it's fine."

It's not like I have anywhere else to go, is it? The Croydon flat, already crappy from the beginning, now feels… compromised. It's less safe than it ever was. There's no other place in this city where I'd feel in any way secure, so I guess Buckingham Palace is as good a destination as any. At least it has high fences.

Quietly and efficiently, the car weaves through London traffic (followed, I notice, by two more identical cars, probably carrying the other PPOs) and as it does, I feel myself slowly calming down. Traffic being what it is in this city, it takes longer than it rightfully should, given the distance, but around half an hour later, I look out of the tinted window and see Buckingham Palace looming. (It really isn't very pretty, is it?)

"We're here," announces Hanson. Pointing at the golden figure standing in front of the palace, he remarks, "That's the Queen Victoria Memorial."

"Yes." I give him a wry smile. "I remember her from my tourist days."

Only that as a tourist, I bought a ticket and stood in a queue with the rest of the unwashed masses. Now, I'm whisked right past the gawking public through the northernmost of the three gates in front of the palace, past the actual palace building and through another gate at its side. The moment it closes behind us, I'm surrounded by calm. There are trees beside us and in front, I catch a glimpse of what I imagine is the palace garden. It's suddenly hard to believe that we're in the middle of London.

Someone opens the door on my side of the car and when I look out, I see a liveried man holding it open for me.

"Go ahead," encourages Hanson and I grab my bag before climbing from the car.

"This way, please, Miss." The liveried man points to a set of stairs that leads up to what I take to be a side entrance of Buckingham Palace.

(Part of me irrationally wants to ask Hanson to come with me, but I know I can't. He's just doing his job and this isn't it anymore. He delivered me safe and sound and now it's someone else's task to take over.)

I've been to Windsor Castle often enough for it to be familiar by now and know my way reasonably well around Kensington Palace, but this is the first time I enter Buckingham Palace as anything other than a plain tourist. I don't get much of a chance to take anything in (nor, to be honest, do I have much headspace for golden ornaments and woven tapestry at the moment), because the liveried man leads me straight up a non-official looking staircase and along a corridor, before stopping in front of a door.

"His Majesty's study," he announces. "His Majesty awaits you."

"Thank you," I reply and he inclines his head slightly.

As the man melts away, I raise a hand to tentatively knock on the door.

"Yes?" calls out a voice that sounds sufficiently like Owen that I dare open the door and peer inside.

When he sees me, a smile appears on his face. "Rilla. Come on in, please."

I slip inside the room (which has got to be the fanciest study I've ever seen in my life) and sit down on the sofa he points me to. Owen sits down on an armchair opposite me and immediately pours out tea from a pot on the side table.

(Seriously, the English and their tea!)

"How are you?" he asks as he hands me a delicate bone china cup.

I accept the cup, but when I try to answer, I find that I'm suddenly close to tears again. I calmed down somewhat during the car ride, but apparently, it just takes someone asking me how I am to have everything bubbling back to the surface.

"There, there." Owen reaches out to pat my arm as I grapple for composure. He waits until I've calmed myself somewhat and am not on the verge of starting to bawl anymore, before withdrawing his hand and taking a sip of tea.

"I take that to mean that all is not well," he remarks kindly.

I shake my head. "No, not really."

Owen hums in thought. "Reed phoned to tell me about the situation at the shop. He says it was alarming."

"It was… pretty bad," I admit and grimace.

"Do they often hunt you like that?" Owen wants to know.

I shrug and take a sip of tea to win some time to think the question over. "Not… not like that, no. Since moving to London, I haven't been able to leave home without some of them following me, but… it's definitely been worse since Christmas. And today was… I think today was worse than ever."

"Because of the photos published today." Owen nods understandingly.

I grimace again. "I had no idea… I mean, I knew the photographers were scouring the area and I was used to some of my neighbours taking pictures of me every time I met them in the hall, but I wouldn't have thought –" I break off and take a deep breath.

"That they'd find a way to encroach on your privacy even more," finishes Owen for me and I'm grateful he understands.

Grateful enough, even, that I dare voice a suspicion that I have never said aloud before, for fear of sounding crazy. "Sometimes…" I hesitate and bite my lip. "I don't want to accuse anyone of something I can't prove, but sometimes, I had the feeling that part of my mail had… well, _disappeared_. And with some of the articles they wrote, I couldn't shake the feeling that the only way for them to have gotten that information would have been to, well…"

"Bug your apartment?" asks Owen.

I shake my head. "Not that bad. I _hope_ not, anyway. But my phone, yes. I can't prove it, but either they guessed _really_ well or some of those reporters must have… listened to some conversation they couldn't have listened to without… without employing illicit methods."

Owen considers me over his tea cup, his expression serious. "I think it's time we get you a secure phone," he decides after a moment. "And I'd strongly advise you to find another place to live."

I laugh, incredulous, and almost choke on my tea. "Like that's easy!"

"It might be easier than you think," he remarks evenly. "First of all, I suggest you stay here for tonight."

When I hesitate, thinking of George, an understanding smile appears on Owen's face. "We'll send someone to take care of your cat," he promises. I feel myself relax slightly and nod slowly.

Owen's smile widens. "That's settled, then. After tonight, we could move you into Kenneth's rooms at Kensington Palace until we've found you somewhere else to live. Or else, you two might consider whether you'd like to move in with him permanently."

Where did that come from?

I blink at him, trying to process both his words and my feelings, before answering cautiously, "I think I might like to have my own place at the moment."

"I understand." Owen nods and I feel he truly does understand, even the things I'm not saying.

He looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to figure out something else. Finally, he says, "There's no shame in accepting help from friends."

"I don't have any friends here." The words are out before I can stop them and they sound bitterer than I realised I felt.

"I think you will find that you have more friends here than you know," Owen replies with a kind smile. "I have some ideas who might be glad to help you out, both with a new home and with a job that is more respectful of you as a person."

So he, too, knows that they're basically selling me to the highest bidder at that job. (Only, of course, he's far too polite to say it that way.)

"If you'll allow, I would like to put out some feelers," adds Owen, inclining his head questioningly.

I shrug, then nod. At this point, I'm honestly not sure how much pride I can even afford anymore.

"Splendid!" He looks genuinely pleased. "And if you'd accept another of my humble suggestions, I do think we have reached the point where some public action against those photographers is in order."

For a moment, I eye him, trying to understand what he's playing at. When I understand, I shake my head. "I can't afford a lawyer, if that's what you mean. And I don't want to ask my parents." (Still a little proud, apparently.)

"I do believe we can help you out with regards to financial matters," intones Owen carefully.

I frown, feeling both surprised and a little confused. "Spending taxpayers' money on the girlfriend? I thought that wasn't allowed."

"For one, I decide what's allowed and what not," reminds Owen gently. "For another, not all of our financial resources stem from taxes. My grandmother's dowry was quite sizeable and Kenneth inherited the estate of his maternal grandfather."

Really? But what about –

"Leslie didn't want it and I believe Frank wanted it to go to both his descendants _and_ the Crown, making Kenneth the perfect heir" explains Owen, as if reading my thoughts. "Teddy and Persis were not yet born when Frank died, but Kenneth put something in trust for them when he was old enough."

Well. That's nice of him, I guess.

"I talked to Kenneth when you were on your way here –" begins Owen.

I interrupt him immediately. " _I_ couldn't reach him!" And just like that, it's back, the hot feeling in my stomach. If he didn't even bother to call me back…

"That's because you can't have the Minister of Defence put a call directly through to his airplane," explains Owen calmly.

The hot feeling in my stomach cools somewhat.

"We both agreed that it's time we put up better protective measures around you," Owen continues. "Starting, if you permit it, with an official warning from both my office and his, telling the press to give you more space."

"But…" I frown at him. "Ken always said that any kind of official action would just make them, you know, bother me even more."

"That was true for the first two years of your relationship, but I don't think it holds true nowadays," replies Owen. "I mean no offence, but in the beginning, few people thought your relationship was serious, so by not officially acknowledging it, we bought you some time and privacy. By now though, no-one can doubt the seriousness of it, so I believe it is time we adjust our response accordingly. We probably should have done that some time ago and I'm truly sorry that we didn't."

He seems to look for a response, so I nod and murmur, "It's alright." Then, struck by a thought, I ask, "And Ken really agrees with this?"

"He does," Owen assure me. "I don't think he realised how dire your current situation is, but once I informed him of what happened today, he advocated a more offensive course of action."

Right.

That's good, isn't it?

I take a deep breath and attempt a smile. It comes out rather wry, but I suppose it's better than nothing.

Owen reaches out to pat my hand. "I promise you it will get better. Our lives might not always be straight-forward, but we know how to look after our own. And that means it's time we start looking after you, too."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It Never Rains in Southern California' (written_ _by Albert Hammond and Mike Hazlewood, released by Albert Hammond in 1972_ _)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Glad to hear the chapter delivered! I hope this one does, too, and the next one especially. I worked towards the next one for over a year!_  
 _Seventeen hours of work? That's seriously ungood! Don't_ do _that! From now on, I advocate that you sleep. Sleep is very important and much more fun than work, too.  
I think Rilla really would have preferred her friends not to watch, but didn't outright ask them not to. Had she done it, I think they would have respected that. But she probably figured that they'd hear about it anyway, so they might as well watch it. If she had her way, no-one would know about what Chad and her other exes had to say, but she's realistic enough to know that now it's out in the open, everyone will know.  
Yes, yes, that was one of the bombs. And the next one followed right on its heels! You decide which is worse ;). I can confirm that we will meet another ex-boyfriend of Rilla before the year (2014) is out and I can promise that the sunshine will come even sooner. Much sooner, in fact. I've been torturing Rilla enough. (Time to torture someone else!)_

 _To JoAnna:  
Of course you don't count the Russian tsar! He was a foreign ruler, at a time when Poland was divided and occupied by both the Russians and the Germans. Between the two of them, Poland was treated __horribly_ _for centuries, though of course, no-one beats the Germans for awful treatment of other nations. But, as you said, enough of politics and history. (Let me just say that I much prefer elected monarchs to hereditary monarchs, if there has to be a monarch at all.)  
I shall most definitely come and visit Krakow when I can arrange it, and Wroclaw, too. I also want to see Zabrze one day. My paternal grandparents were born there (back when it was called Hindenburg) though they didn't meet until they both came to Western Germany after the war. I think it would be interesting to visit one day.  
But back to the story ;).  
Eric is very, very nice. He's like Dan in that they're both quintessential nice guys. I consider both of them much better boyfriends/husband than Ken is, because they're kind and supportive and _there _. I'd actually go so far as to say that Eric is too nice for Rilla, and I think she senses that, too. Not that she doesn't deserve someone nice, but... well, she treated him abysmally and there's no way around it.  
Ken didn't get a preview of the TV special. If he had, he would have prepared Rilla for what was to come. I think he saw the previews and he knows about these kind of TV specials, so he had a good guess at what they were going to say (and _how _they were going to say it).  
Drama is good! Drama is fun! And yes, the Leslie drama is much, much closer. It's getting warmer... ;)  
_


	63. The jack and the queen

_London, England  
February 2014_

 **The jack and the queen**

The Buckingham Palace guest room allocated to me is one of the most scrumptious rooms I've ever slept in (maybe _the_ most scrumptious room). But gold ornaments and heavy carpets alone don't ensure a good night's sleep, so I spend the majority of the night throwing myself fitfully from side to side. It's only in the early hours of morning that I fall into a light slumber and, accordingly, already mid-morning by the time I finally get up.

I put on a brand-new dress left for me with a cheery note from Melissa (judging from the price tag, someone gave her a credit card and let her go wild with it), before following the directions of a nice liveried man to what he calls the breakfast room. (A room just for breakfast! These palaces are seriously weird sometimes.)

Entering the room, I quickly take in my surroundings. There's a set table in the middle, a breakfast buffet along one of the walls – and Ken standing next to the window.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt out.

He turns and smiles. "I came down last night. My father said you went to bed early and I didn't want to disturb you, so I didn't knock."

I blink at him, uncomprehending. "You were in Scotland."

"I was," he confirms. "The MOD dispatched a helicopter to take me down to London."

"They can do that?" I want to know. (I still haven't wrapped my head around his sudden appearance.)

"If the King requires me for urgent matters of state, yes, they can," explains Ken matter-of-factly.

I frown. "I'm not an urgent matter of state."

"No," he acknowledges, "but you're important."

Hm.

Ken studies my face for a moment, before taking a step closer and extending his arms halfway towards me. "Am I allowed to give you a kiss?" he asks.

Instinctively, I draw up my shoulders and hug my arms to myself. "I'm… I'm not sure?"

He takes a deep breath and drops his arms to dangle by his side. "You're mad at me," he states.

I hadn't considered whether I was mad at him before, but now that he's standing here, I realise that yes, I am. Silently, I nod.

Ken lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can you explain why?" he asks.

An incredulous laugh escapes me. "You don't _know_?"

He raises his head to look at me. "I could guess. But at this point, I'm thinking guessing probably doesn't cut it anymore."

No. Probably not.

We hold eye contact, until he finally lowers his head and looks away. I let go of a long breath.

Here goes nothing, then.

"Where do you want me to start?" My feelings are veering so quickly between tired and sad and angry that I'm getting dizzy. "Maybe with the fact that while you're up there playing solider, I'm here all alone and utterly _miserable_? You can hide behind army fences and castle walls, but I'm the one who's out there and I'm the one they hunt down _every bloody day_!"

"You told me in September it was alright to do the training," Ken says quietly, still not looking at me.

I nod curtly. "I did. I didn't tell you it was alright to basically desert me while you're doing it. I mean, it needed your _father_ to intervene yesterday. He shouldn't need to be the person to intervene!"

"You've not exactly been forthcoming with information," Ken points out. "Every time I asked, you said it was fine and not to worry. What was I supposed to think?"

"Maybe you could have checked for yourself?" I suggest sarcastically. "And anyway, what do you expect me to say? You're not talking to me either, but I'm supposed to share everything with you?"

"I am talking to you," he insists.

I scoff. "You're _not_. Nor are you allowing me to be a part of your life, not completely. I'm still at arm's length, waiting for some kind of absolution so that finally, I might be allowed to become an equal partner to you, rather than just being a part of some kind of alternative non-royal fantasy life you've built for yourself."

It's harsh, I know. But that doesn't make it any less truthful.

"That's not true," Ken counters anyway.

"It _is_!" I insist. "If it weren't true, why else would it need your father and your sister to introduce me to the royal side of your life?"

"I didn't stand in the way of you forging a relationship with them," Ken points out, his voice strained.

My laugh is borderline mocking. "Am I supposed to be grateful for that now?"

"No, but –" he begins.

I cut right across him. "I _tried_ , Ken. I tried to figure out the royal aspects without your help, while making sure you wouldn't feel neglected by me spending time with your family. _You_ were no help, but I tried my best anyway, because I wanted to be understanding. I know our relationship is some kind of escapism mechanism for you, but that doesn't cut it anymore. _I_ can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what?" he asks tightly.

I throw my hands up. " _This_! I can't keep hovering on the side lines of your life, to be either accepted or ignored as it suits you. I need… I need more than the scraps you're throwing me. I suffer all the drawbacks of being your girlfriend – and yesterday was just _one_ example of that –, but you _won't let me in_ and I still don't know why that is!"

"Because of me."

I whirl around.

Standing in the doorway, her expression completely unreadable, is the Queen.

"Mum," comes Ken's hesitant voice from behind me.

His mother, however, is looking at me, her expression alert and a little searching.

"Your Majesty," I greet her, inclining my head slightly.

"Please. Call me Leslie," she replies immediately.

Hm.

I'm not sure I expected that.

(No, scratch that. I _didn't_ expect it. Ages of ignoring me and then we're in first name basis just like that? Weird.)

"Mum," repeats Ken. This time, there's a note of warning in his voice.

His mother – _Leslie_ – turns her gaze on him. "Kenneth?"

I, too, look over my shoulder and just catch him giving her a pointed look as he's trying to communicate something he doesn't want to say out loud in front of me. (Anyone detect a pattern?)

"I kept my distance for so long," the Que- Leslie remarks evenly. "Don't you think it's time?"

Time for _what_?

Ken swallows heavily. His jaw is set and there's that furrow between his eyebrows. But he doesn't say No. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all.

Nodding her head slightly, his mother turns back to me. "I have something I'd like to talk to you about," she tells me. "Would you be willing to listen?"

Is she _kidding_ me? As if I'd _ever_ refuse any information she deigns to throw my way.

"I guess so." I make sure to keep my voice neutral, even a little unimpressed. Can't be seen to be too eager and, to be honest, after how long she ignored my very existence, I'm not well-inclined to be super polite. (No matter how disappointed Grandmother Marilla would be in me if she knew.)

The Qu- _Leslie_ points me towards two armchairs in front of an unlit fireplace. Ken remains standing by the window, his arms folded, his face stony. I'm usually quite good at reading him even when he's closing off, but right now, I'm not sure what's on his mind. I guess I'm pretty lost in general at the moment.

Sitting down in the armchair next to mine, Leslie turns to me. For a second or two, she considers me with something akin to curiosity, before stating, "One of the reasons Kenneth has been reluctant to include you more in the royal part of his – _our_ – life, is my story."

I frown, processing her words. "I don't think I understand."

"He was – _is_ – afraid that meeting me and learning about my past will scare you away," explains Leslie with an odd little smile. "As it rightfully should."

Quickly glancing over at Ken, I find that he has his back to us. He's turned to the window overlooking the palace garden, but somehow, I can't imagine he's seeing much of anything.

"I'm still here," I point out with a shrug.

Leslie nods slowly. "You are. A lot of people wouldn't be, which is why I think it is time we tell you the entire truth and allow you to make up your own mind." She pauses briefly, before adding, questioningly, "Kenneth?"

For a long moment, he doesn't react, but then I can see him jerk his head upwards in what is an approximation of a nod. Leslie, apparently satisfied to regard this as confirmation, turns back to me.

"Owen's mother didn't want us to marry," she begins, which might be viewed as an odd place to start, but I'm taking everything I can get. "Some people believe it was because as a widow, I wasn't the pure virgin they wanted for a future queen. Others thought it was because in seven years of marriage, I hadn't born Dick, my first husband, a living child."

I can't help but take note of the word 'living'.

"Both of those considerations certainly applied," acknowledges Leslie, "but Alexandra's biggest worry was that she considered my family to be mentally unstable. She wasn't wrong about that."

Her eyes search my face, as if looking for some sign of aversion or reluctance there. I just raise my chin a little and meet her gaze.

"When they found my brother dead in a nightclub toilet at barely twenty-one, no-one could say for sure whether he'd deliberately overdosed on heroine or whether it had been accidental." Leslie's voice, I notice, is surprisingly calm considering her words. "When, not quite two years later, my mother swallowed a package of subscription pills and chased them with a bottle of red wine, matters seemed more clear-cut, though still not beyond all doubt. By the time my father got his cancer diagnosis seven years later and immediately drove home to hang himself in one of the old barns on the furthest end of the estate, there was no doubt left that it had been deliberate."

Well…

Wow.

"You see that Alexandra wasn't wrong. Suicide runs in my family," Leslie points out almost conversationally.

I just stare at her.

For a moment or two, she seems to think about how to proceed before saying, "My parents' marriage was arranged. My mother was beautiful and as well-bred as a thoroughbred, but her family had long lost their fortune. They somehow held on to the family seat, but by the time my mother was born, it was barely more than a ruin."

Why is she telling me this?

I mean, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but… why?

"My father's family wasn't quite new money, but they could only trace their lineage back some 300 years," Leslie continues. "They did, however, get rich at a time when 'public service' still meant that those in power liberally lined their own pockets."

And that's not true these days anymore?

"When my mother was twenty and the family home crumbling around her, she set out to marry a man who could provide for her parents and siblings. As the oldest child and the most beautiful daughter, she not only felt responsible, but had the highest chance of success, too," Leslie explains.

"And then she married your father," I interject, trying to get the hang of this tale she's telling.

Leslie inclines her head. "She did, or rather, he married her – and her entire family. I never can decide whether they loved each other, but if it was an arrangement, they both got something out of it. My mother escaped the genteel squalor of her childhood, securing a comfortable future for her family as she did. My father, a mere earl, married a duke's daughter from one of the premier families of the country."

She pauses to look around the room, a wry smile playing on her lips. "My father was the ninth Earl of Holderness, but my maternal grandfather was Duke of Buckingham. I always thought the irony of that to be quite poetic."

That's one way of looking at it, I guess.

Sobering slightly, the smile slipping from her lips, Leslie returns to her story. "Even ensconced in her husband's riches, my mother never forgot the poverty of her childhood. She lived in constant terror that my father would divorce her, though oddly, that never stopped her from taking lovers. When I was eighteen, my father found out about her affairs in such a blatant way that he could no longer turn a blind eye to it. He didn't ask for a divorce, but he set up a smaller household for my mother to live in, separating from her in everything but name."

I _think_ I know where this is heading.

"For my mother, it must have seemed as if her worst nightmares had come true. So she did what had saved her once before – she sought out a rich husband for the beautiful eldest daughter. Me." Leslie hesitates, her eyes searching out mine. "You might find it odd that I call myself beautiful, but you must understand that to me, beauty is nothing to be desired. More often than not, it is a curse."

Realising she expects me to answer, I raise my shoulders in a shrug. "Nothing wrong with saying the truth." (Only a fool would deny that she's a beautiful woman.)

"Perhaps," replies Leslie, inclining her head slightly. "As it was, beauty was my curse. Before I even realised what was happening, my mother had procured a husband for me who professed himself to be enchanted by my looks. Dick Moore had no breeding at all, but after all, I was high-born enough for both of us. More importantly though, his family was fabulously rich. I didn't learn until later _how_ they'd gotten rich, or that half of their business deals were barely legal."

"Why did you marry him?" I ask and wrinkle my nose. (Briefly forgetting, I must admit, who I'm speaking to.)

"My grandmother Persis asked me the same question," responds Leslie, again with that wry little smile. "She was my father's mother and provided a safe haven for Kenneth – my brother Kenneth – and me whenever my father was gone and my mother just didn't care. The best answer I ever came up with is that _I_ cared. My mother was so terrified of being flung back into poverty that she begged, cried and cajoled and in the end, I didn't know how to refuse her."

Seeing as my last question was well-received, I try another one. "Would your father really have left your mother without money?"

Leslie shakes her head. "He wouldn't have. I didn't know that then though and didn't dare ask. By the time I realised it, it was already too late. I was bound to Dick, until death do us part."

He _did_ die though, didn't he?

"I won't bore you with the details of my first marriage. All you have to understand is that Dick was –" she hesitates and for the first time, I see emotions ripple over her face. "He was abusive, in perhaps every sense of the word. When he had his head smashed in in a drunken pub brawl seven years into our marriage, I was as relieved as I'd ever been in my life. My mother was already dead by that point, unable to get over the death of Kenneth, always her favourite child. When Dick died as well, for the first time in my life, I was free."

Leslie shakes her head at some private thought. "Many people, I think, considered me a desirable match. I was still only twenty-six, had my looks and my breeding. With my brother dead, I was set to inherit my father's estate and people must have thought that Dick, too, had left me money, not realising that I donated every last penny of it as soon as I could."

"I myself had resolved not to ever marry again, but then Owen stepped into my life." For the first time, a genuine smile appears on her lips, though it turns wistful almost immediately. "He was everything I could have hoped for and I knew he loved me – but he needed his mother's permission to marry and Alexandra didn't want me for a daughter-in-law. She did everything she could to separate us and though I blamed her then, I'm not sure I can blame her now."

Really?

That's… weirdly understanding, isn't it?

"Owen was adamant even when I wavered and in the end, Alexandra agreed to let us marry," continues Leslie. "An upstanding widow was better than a divorcee, after all. And when I explained to her that after I lost one pregnancy when Dick returned home very drunk from the pub one night, I made sure never to go through that again, she could no longer wonder about my ability to bear children."

Well… I guess that's a requirement for whoever marries a future king, right?

"There was the issue of my family's mental health, but though I know it worried her, Alexandra eventually relented." Here, Leslie laughs a short, humourless laugh that almost makes me shiver. "Little did she know that it was her own death that would prove her right."

I frown, trying to make sense of her cryptic words. "I don't think I –"

"It was alright at first," she replies, not letting me finish. "I proved all the naysayer wrong by bearing my first child within a year of getting married. My miracle baby."

She glances at Ken, who's been so quiet through the entire exchange that it would be easy to forget he's even there. He doesn't react but for a stiffening of his shoulders. Had he turned, he would have seen his mother's gaze, so fiercely and painfully loving that it's hard to bear.

"After that, however, it went downhill." Suddenly, there's a hard edge to Leslie's voice, all the gentleness gone. "I struggled with carrying another pregnancy to term and I struggled even more with the attention. You, I'm sure, understand what I mean. That feeling when…" She trails off, obviously looking for words.

"When everyone wants a piece of you and you can't help wondering if in the end, they won't tear you apart?" I supply, not quite sure where the thought came from but doing nothing to soften it either.

There's a sound from the window, but when I look at him, Ken is already turned away again.

Leslie, meanwhile, studies me with her alert, searching eyes. "Yes. Well put," she confirms. "It did tear me apart, all of it. The scrutiny, the expectation, the gilded cage. I loved my husband and my son, but as the years passed, I found myself unable to express that feeling, unable to do much of anything. I was caught in a downward spiral and I didn't know a way out. When I finally had Teddy and then Persis, I thought it would get better, that I'd be able to recreate the bliss I felt when Kenneth was small, but by that time, I was barely holding on. I had no name for it then, but I was fighting a major depression and I was losing the fight. And then, Alexandra died."

She lapses into silence, seemingly caught in her own memories. Briefly, I wonder whether to ask her, but don't. I think I know what happened.

Long moments pass, before Leslie finally raises her head again. Her voice isn't strong anymore. "It was all… too much. The thought of being queen was…more than I could bear. I couldn't see a way out, I was mad with panic and fear. Owen tried to be there for me, but he had all these demands placed on him suddenly and I felt horribly alone. So, I waited until Owen was out and the babies settled, went to take a bath and took a razor blade with me. It was," her voice catches, "it _is_ the single biggest regret of my life."

Her gaze, unfocused before, settles back on Ken and the expression is back, that intense, scorching look. And that's when the pieces click into place. That's when I know.

"He found you," I breathe.

The silence in the room is deafening.

Leslie's face is utterly stricken, her eye burning with emotions I couldn't begin to fathom. In what I presume is instinct, she raises one of her hands, extending it partly towards Ken. Every fibre of her being seems poised to go to him – and yet, she doesn't move.

Whatever it is that is holding her back (guilt, I imagine, of a magnitude that I barely understand), it has no effect on me. Pushing my armchair back, I walk over to Ken and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my face into the crispness of his shirt. As I touch him, I can feel him flinch, but then he recognises me and relaxes, his shoulders almost slumping over.

We stay like that for an indiscernible amount of time. Finally, I can hear footsteps behind us, followed by a door closing as Leslie silently leaves the room. And yet still, neither Ken nor I move.

"Part of me always wanted to tell you," he finally says. "But it wasn't for me to tell and when Mum offered… I'm afraid I asked her not to talk to you. I know it was wrong, to lock you out, but…"

"You thought I'd baulk," I finish for him. I suppose I should be more irritated with him – asking his mother not to talk to me, keeping me in the dark, thinking I'd leave him – but somehow, the revelations of the last minutes have softened me.

Ken lets go of a long breath. "That, too, I guess. It's not that I doubt you, but… any sane person would leave. Selfishly, I didn't want to lose you, so I tried to make you stay – and almost seem to have lost you in the process." He laughs, but there's no humour. "I _know_ I'm selfish when it comes to you. I tried so hard to preserve the happy, relaxed life we had, that I struggled with allowing my family to befriend you and tried to keep you away from royal life."

Yes. I noticed.

"Much more than that though…" Ken hesitates, swallowing heavily. "I thought that the less contact you had with my royal life, the less it could hurt you. It was probably foolish of me to think that, but… you heard her. You heard what it did to her. And sometimes, I still wake up at night and… _God_ , there was so much _blood_ …"

His voice catches, breaks, and I know instinctively he can't talk anymore. Slipping between him and the window, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his head down to rest on my shoulder. His arms come up to grip my waist.

It takes a long moment until Ken speaks again, voice muffled against the fabric of my dress. "I always knew my mother was unwell. I didn't understand it, but it was a reality I grew up with. When she was well, I was the happiest boy alive – and when she wasn't, I was miserable. For the longest time, I thought it was something I had done. That it was my fault that my mother locked herself in her room to cry and that my father was gone on yet another trip to a county with a name I couldn't pronounce."

Not knowing what to say, I simply hold him tighter and press a kiss against his hair, to try and let him know that I'm there.

"There were other adults around to look after me. I didn't have a permanent nanny, but I often stayed with my aunts, Mary and Caroline, and with Tatty's family. My grandmother took me regularly as well, or even Great-Aunt Tanya. When I couldn't reach either of them, I slipped down to the kitchen where Cook always had a treat for me," he continues. He raises his head again, but otherwise doesn't move, so I keep him close. "I wasn't alone, but I was lonely. Now I know it wasn't their fault, but my father was absent physically and my mother was absent emotionally and –"

"You couldn't rely on them," I finish the sentence he leaves hanging. I suddenly feel like I understand so much that has puzzled me for so long.

"I _couldn't_ rely on them. I guess I learned that early on," agrees Ken. His voice is strained, but somehow, I think it does him good to get all of this out. "I think in some ways, I tried to make up for it. After Teddy and Persis were born, my mother got worse. I still remember how often I sat next to her on the bed, talking to her or reading aloud or coaxing her to eat. Then I'd go down to play with my siblings – they had a lovely nanny, but it's not _the same_ – and finally snuck in my father's study to make sure he wouldn't work himself to death."

That sounds… too bleak for words.

"Then my grandmother died. I was taken out of school, went to check on my mother and –" he breaks off, sighing. "She got proper treatment after that. It's never been as bad, though she still has times when she's terribly sad. We try our best to help her and I think she's improved even more in recent years, but…"

But he can't rely on her. He can't trust her not to get worse again.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, hoping the words will carry everything I can't seem to say.

Ken briefly brushes his lips against my forehead. "One of the worst things to come out of that – that _situation_ , was that my father sent me to boarding school shortly afterwards. I didn't want to be sent away. I wanted to be home, to make sure Teddy and Persis were cared for, to help out my father with his duties and to protect my Mum from these invisible demons eating her up. I cried, I begged, I raged, but he was adamant. I never hated him before, but I hated him then."

"I'm sure he meant well," I remark cautiously, hoping it won't be seen siding with his father.

But Ken, thankfully, nods. "I know he did. But meaning well isn't the same as doing well. And the boarding school… it brought other problems. I learned to like it there, though I was always terrified of what I'd find at home when I returned. What I didn't foresee, however, was that in my absence, they grew into a family of four – a family that didn't need me. I'd return, for days or a few weeks or sometimes just for an afternoon and they were a unit that I couldn't find my way into. I was… I don't think they know it, but I was terribly jealous of my siblings. It felt to me that they got to be children, which I was never allowed to be. Given our positions, I might always have felt that, but in sending me away, my father made it worse."

And right there, is the explanation for why he kept me so carefully from them, for why he won't allow them in and for why he keeps his father so firmly at arm's length. If he mistrusts Leslie, he _blames_ Owen.

I gently rub his back, trying to comfort him. "It was only done to protect you, I'm sure. I mean, you were _eight_. You were a child and you were carrying too much." Thinking of the boy he must have been almost breaks my heart.

"Perhaps." His mouth twists into a wry smile. "But I didn't ask to be protected."

"Yes," I reply quietly. "Neither did I."

That seems to jolt him, because he looks down at me questioningly, trying to understand what I mean.

"I'm not your mother, Ken," I tell him carefully. "I don't have her past and I don't have her… temperament. I struggled with the outside realities of being your girlfriend and I'm sure I will struggle with them again, but I won't… I _won't_. I'm grateful for you trying to protect me, but that's not what I need from you."

"What, then?" he asks, voice raspy.

I take a deep breath. "I need your support. I need you to be there for me. I need to know that I can rely on you to have my back. I've been fighting those battles alone for a few months now, but on my own, I'm losing them. I need to know we're doing this together."

"We are," he quickly assures, looking almost stricken. "I know I bungled it, but please don't doubt that to me, there was never a question of us not doing this together. I'll do better, too, I promise. I might need your help, because I'm bloody messed up myself, but… what it all boils down to is that I don't want to lose you. I _desperately_ don't want to lose you."

"I'm still here," I remind him gently. "I'm still in. And here's something else you can rely on: regardless of what happens and regardless of what it is – if you ever need me, I promise to be there."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Farewell, Angelina' (written_ _by Bob Dylan, released by Joan Baez in 1965_ _)._

* * *

 **A/N:  
If you guessed this Author's Note was to announce another hiatus... you guessed right. I'm going on another holiday (much needed, in my personal opinion) and thus, so will the story. I've teased this particular chapter for so long that I wanted to finally get it to you (and I'm really curious to hear what you think of it!), but now that it's out in the world, I'm putting the story on a two week-hiatus. Expect the next chapter on March 4th. I promise that from now on, things will be much happier than they've been, so at least there's something to look forward to!**

* * *

 _To JoAnna:  
The press truly are awful, aren't they? Sadly, they're that way in real life, too. I particularly thought of when Kate was papped while tanning when on holiday with her husband - and the papers then had the audacity to blame and shame her. They truly stop at nothing and sadly, Rilla learned it the hard way here.  
I'm with you when it comes to Ken's behaviour. He _is _in a tricky situation, but he could do so much more to resolve it and he doesn't, so... on balance, yes, he's in the wrong and he needs to improve. (Still!) But we learned a lot about what makes him tick in this chapter, so I don't want to say too much about him right now. I'd rather hear whether this new information altered your view of him at least a little bit or whether you'd still like to pelt him with rotten avocados ;). Both, of course, perfectly valid opinions to hold! I'm just very curious to hear what you think.  
We also agree about Owen. Someone called him a king among men and that's a perfect description of him. He's a little bit awkward when it comes to the emotional stuff, but we shall forgive him, because having his son's blubbering girlfriend sitting in his office must feel a bit awkward. But he deftly rises to the occasion in the way Ken should have and didn't, so lots of bonus points to Owen! (Even more so because I think he's been wanting to get involved for a while and just waited for Rilla's permission.) So, we're in agreement about Owen being great and the press being awful - and the jury is still out on Ken! Do let me hear what you think, yes? :)  
_

 _To Mammu:  
I'm no expert on British law, but I don't think it's legal to take and/or publish pictures like these. But for the press, it's a simple equation. They know they will make much more money from publishing than any penalty would cost them, so for them, it makes a twisted kind of sense to publish. It's very, very bad, but unfortunately, it's how they operare.  
Owen is indeed a King in Shining Armour! I think he's been itching to get involved for a while, but didn't want to impose, so he waited until Rilla asked for his help. Equally, I think Hanson was glad to pitch in and help her with the press. As Owen said, there are more people willing to help her than Rilla thinks, which will come in handy when she goes looking for a new job and a new flat - which will happen soon, I promise!  
You wished for me to torture someone not Rilla, so... did this chapter deliver? ;) _


	64. What salvation must be like

_London, England  
March 2014_

 **What salvation must be like**

"I'm really very grateful that you're giving me this opportunity, Mrs Hillhouse," I tell the woman next to me in my most well-behaved voice.

"Call me Pamela," she replies with a smile. "No need for the formality if we are to work together."

Strictly speaking, I'm set to start working _for_ her, but it's not like I'll protest a relaxed approach to work hierarchies.

"And no need for you to feel grateful," continues Pamela as she holds open an office door for me. "We're happy to have you. You'll be a great addition to the team."

She nods at a pair of armchairs in a corner of the office and I take a seat as directed. I'm feeling a little uncomfortable, to be honest. Not because of Pamela, who's super nice, but because I'm not quite sure what she expects of me.

I mean, when Steve mentioned that his mother-in-law had a small party planning business and would it be alright for him to give her my number, I barely allowed myself to feel the little flutter of hope rising within me. It just sounded too good to be true. Even now, having met Pamela and found her to be warm and open, I'm still waiting for the catch. (Maybe half a year of working for Marcia does that to you.)

"I don't…" I hesitate and take a deep breath. "I don't have a lot of experience in the party planning business, to be honest. I mean, in theory, I should have six months work experience, but…"

Pamela nods, a sympathetic look on her face. "Fiona mentioned that they mostly made you wait tables at your old job."

"Ye-es." I draw out the word. "I've certainly got lots of experience waitressing, but not so much when it comes to the planning part of it."

"But the waitressing means you know all about the catering side of the business and I imagine that along the way, you also picked up some knowledge about which dishes pair well and which food works well for which occasion," Pamela points out.

I frown, considering her words. After a moment, I nod slowly. "I suppose you're right."

"That's what I thought." Pamela looks pleased. "You also have an economics degree, so we can trust you with the numbers. And you have both style and an eye for colours." She indicates my outfit that combines mint and emerald to quite a lovely effect, if I may say so myself.

"At least I know not to pair burnt orange and hot pink," I acknowledge with a wry smile.

Pamela laughs. "That's a good start. We can teach you the rest."

Let's hope so.

"You should fit in nicely," Pamela adds, appraising me. "Steve only has good things to say about you and Fiona mentioned repeatedly how nice you've been to her."

Hard not to be, really. I've met Fiona a few times since her and Steve's wedding last summer and she's the quiet, polite kind that wants to please everyone. (No wonder the likes of Vera ate her for breakfast.) Being kind to Fiona should come naturally to any person who isn't outright nasty. (Anyone not named Vera, that is.)

"They're lovely," I reply, because they are. "And they make such a sweet couple."

"They do, don't they?" Pamela beams. "Personally, I can't wait for grandchildren, but I think any potential grandmother is impatient for them."

"That's true," I confirm. "My mother has two grandchildren, but Izzie, the younger one, will be seven years old in May and Mum's itching for a baby to join the family. My brother actually got married last year, but he and his wife are in Africa with Doctors Without Borders at the moment, so it's unlikely they'll produce a family addition soon."

Pamela nods thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. I read about your brother in –" She stops herself, suddenly looking uncomfortable, probably at having inadvertently admitted that she reads what is published about me and my family.

Still, it's not like she's the only one, so I just shrug it off. "Read about it in some newspaper or another? Yes, they wrote up quite a few articles when Jem and Faith's plans first got reported on."

It allowed the papers to compare my selfless brother healing poor African orphans to me gallivanting around London attending parties, which was a theme too good for them to pass up. On the plus side, in writing about Doctors Without Borders, they accidentally directed attention to a very worthy cause, so I suppose something good came out of it.

"Where in Africa are your brother and sister-in-law?" Pamela asks. "Not in Guinea, I hope?"

She's referencing a very recent report about Ebola cases being discovered in Guinea. I don't know much about Ebola (or, to be honest, Guinea) but from what I read, it sounds incredibly nasty. Also very, very dangerous.

"Luckily not," I answer Pamela's question. "They're in Uganda, which, if I have my geography correct, isn't anywhere close to Guinea."

And here's hoping they'll _stay_ there!

"That's a relief," remarks Pamela and seems to mean it, too.

"It is," I agree.

There's nothing else to say to that, so for a moment or two, we both remain silent. Thankfully, Pamela doesn't let the silence stretch for too long. Instead, she gets up from her armchair and indicates for me to follow her example.

"Shall I introduce you to the others?" she asks, upbeat.

"Um, yes. Sure," I reply, feeling a little befuddled by the sudden offer.

(Does this mean I'm hired?)

If she notices my confusion, Pamela doesn't react to it. Instead, she waves me back out into the corridor and motions for me to follow her.

"As you'll see we're just a small company," she explains as we walk. "Our clients aren't as well-known or prestigious as they were at your last job. For the most part, we work for smaller charities or, well, _normal_ people celebrating a big milestone occasion."

"Sounds good," I comment and fully mean it, too. I've found what she terms 'normal people' to be more respectful than the not normal kind. (Celebrities are the worst. If I had a pound for every time some third-rate reality TV actress tried to convince me to go to "that super rad new club" with her, I wouldn't need to work at all.)

"I'm in the lucky position that I can chose who we work for," continues Pamela and though she doesn't elaborate, I know this to mean that she doesn't need her company to make actual money. The exact logistics of it are unclear to me, but from what I gathered, Fiona's parents were perfectly middle class and not particularly well-off until her father made a serious amount of money with some clever investments in the 90s. Now, they're what is euphemistically called 'comfortable' but really means 'filthy rich'.

"Always a good thing," I remark, because really, what else is there to say?

Pamela nods agreement, before stopping in front of another door. Opening it, she reveals a board room with a big, oval table in the middle. Standing and sitting around it are about a dozen people, who look at us curiously when we enter. (They don't look _surprised_ though, which leads me to believe my coming here today was communicated to them in advance.)

"Everyone, this is Rilla, the newest addition to our team," Pamela introduces. (So I guess this means I'm hired.)

The group reacts with murmurs of hello, before Pamela proceeds to introduce everyone to me. I don't manage to remember all of the names, but do retain a good chunk of them. The guy with the glasses is Paul, the girl with the blond ponytail is Felicity, the woman in the delectable knit pullover is Marion, the man with the checked bow tie is –

Pamela claps her hands, interrupting my mental recitation of names. "Have a seat everyone. What's on the agenda today?"

Since no-one tells me to go, I, too, tentatively take a few steps towards the table. Meggie, the one with the piercings, taps the chair next to her and smiles at me. Grateful, I sit down and smile back.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi," I whisper back.

That's it for introductions though, because apparently, we (we!) have a full agenda for today, which the man with the bow tie (André) immediately launches into. Apparently, they're in the middle of planning an evening event for a charity to which a few C-list celebrities and lowly nobles are expected. Judging from the undercurrent of excitement in the room, it seems to be quite a big deal to them.

While they go through plans and discuss their various stages of implementations, I am content just to sit back and observe. After all, no-one wants the new one to chime in with opinions right away and besides, it's not like I have strong opinions either way. I'm sure the venue is lovely and multi-coloured tulips sound like a very pretty idea for decorations.

I might have sat through the entire meeting without saying a word, had they not moved on to talking about the menu. Specifically, the menu in relation to their biggest celebrity, an actress well-known for several large-scale BBC productions of the historical variant.

"She told an interviewer some years ago that she loves Beef Stroganoff," reports Rina, the one with the head of wild curls.

Pamela nods. "We'll talk to the chef about preparing Beef Stroganoff as the main course. Any ideas for –"

"Excuse me?" I hear myself pipe up.

All heads swivel to look at me. I immediately regret speaking.

Still, nothing to do but to power on now.

"I was just thinking… well, _someone_ told me that most people in the public eye are careful never to express a preference for any food, because from then on, they're sure to get served that food constantly," I explain, fidgeting a little in my seat. "I'm sure she's had to eat Beef Stroganoff all the time since doing that interview and would welcome a change."

Poor Owen certainly sounded like he rued the day he ever mentioned enjoying spitched eel. And Leslie, who I assume has to eat it when accompanying him, looked positively revolted at the mere reminder.

"That actually makes sense," remarks Rick, the tall one, thoughtfully. Around the table, several others nod their heads.

Thus encouraged, I add quickly, "And with regards to the seating plan… I know they're the only two aristocratic guests, but I wouldn't put Lady Berger and the Baroness Sanderson at the same table."

"Why not?" enquires Sophie, who has the absolute cutest yellow heels. (I must remember to ask her where she got them.)

"Apparently, there was a… _situation_ some months ago" I answer carefully. To put it more bluntly, Baroness Sanderson had an affair with _Lord_ Berger, about which Tatty told Katie and me with more glee than appropriate, given the subject.

Even without me elaborating, most of the others (my new colleagues!) seem to catch the implication, leading to smiles and chuckles.

Pamela taps her pen against the desk and when I look at her, I find her watching me. "Well, then", she prompts. "What would you suggest, Rilla?"

Right.

I _can_ do this.

I mean, I _really_ can do this. Because while I still try to retain more of a spectator position throughout the rest of the meeting, I dare to chime in with a few more ideas on occasion and while they aren't always adopted, they're all received kindly. By the time the meeting is over, Pamela formally welcomes me to the team and asks me to start on April 1st. (No joke, hopefully.)

As I leave the building with a new job in my figurative pocket, I can't help reflecting that, all in all, it went as well as it possibly could have.

Fishing my new, super-secure phone from my handbag (a very cute bag I got when I went flea market shopping with Lucy last weekend), I fire off quick texts to Mum and Dad (they're at work, but I know we will speak later). Starting to walk, I press a button in the phone and raise it to my ear. On the other end, Ken picks up so quickly that I know he must have been waiting by his phone. (And I'd be lying if I said this didn't please me.)

"Hello love. How did it go?" he asks.

"I have a new job come April 1st!" I answer, excitement lacing my words. Turns out I am very, _very_ happy never to have to see Marcia again.

"That's great!" exclaims Ken. "I'm proud of you."

"It's not like I had to do much," I protest, but I'm smiling as I do. "It wasn't my great qualifications that convinced her. It's more a case of having the right connections."

"For one, I'm sure you're far better qualified than you admit. And for another, I think a lot of jobs are filled according to who knows who," Ken replies, sounding relaxed. "And if you got your job partly based on Steve and Fiona liking you, there are worse reasons for getting hired."

Can't argue with that, I guess.

"I got my new home through connections as well," I point out, because I still feel a little uneasy about _that_.

When Owen asked for permission to put out feelers about a new flat for me, I didn't think anything would come of it. Little did I know that Genie and Rolly Faversham have a spacious London home that comes with a smaller mews house behind it ('mews' is fancy speak for a stable or carriage house). Apparently, they renovated and furnished it for Tatty when they thought she was going to attend Queen Mary University here in London (named, as Teddy told me, for Mary of Teck, wife of King Victor). Since Tatty decided to up expectations and go to Durham instead, the mews house has stood empty expect for use by the occasional visitor. When they heard of my plight, Genie and Rolly were only too happy to offer it to me, at whatever rent I fancied paying. (Yes, really.)

I agonised over the offer for quite a while, not wanting to be seen to be accepting freebies, but in the end… I guess I was too desperate to say no. Hence why I didn't just land a job today, but am also moving into my new abode.

"You got that house because Genie and Rolly adore you," Ken amends. "I imagine Tatty is pretty pleased they now have you on their doorstep?"

"She said so," I confirm. "Apparently, she thinks that if they can take care of me, they will back up on the question of what she wants to do with her life."

"Two bird with a stone," Ken declares and I can hear him smiling.

"She said that as well," I deadpan.

He laughs and my smile comes instinctively. I love his laugh. (I love _him_ , period.)

"Do you have enough help for the move?" Ken asks, changing subjects.

"I do," I answer. "I'm meeting Damian, Tony, Lucy and Dev at the old apartment. Mark went with Katie and Adam to get my stuff from KP."

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "At risk of repeating myself, you could have stayed at Kensington Palace. It's not like the place isn't big enough for both of us."

That's an understatement if there ever was one. Wren House is an independent structure within the grounds of Kensington Palace and what they term a 'five bedroom, five reception room'-house that comes with its own walled garden. It's easily twice the size of our Oxford home and a lot fancier. Persis and Teddy live next door in what are termed 'cottages' (Ivy Cottage for her, Notthingham Cottage for him), but that are really houses the size of normal family homes. The royals, it turns out, don't do 'small'.

I've stayed at Wren House ever since February. My old apartment didn't feel safe enough and Ken's place stood unoccupied anyway. (Though truth to be told, half the time I slept over at Persis'. It just felt too weird to be rattling around the house on my own.) With me living at KP, everyone – from Owen to Persis to, most importantly, Ken – encouraged me to stay there (with the exception of Leslie who, I think, _understood_ ). I almost agreed, but…

"I know and I'm grateful you're asking," I tell Ken, somewhat hesitantly. "It's just… I think that right now, this is the best decision for me. If nothing else, I'll like not having someone record the time I leave home and come back every day." (Those guards at the KP gates are nothing if not meticulous.)

"Can't argue with that," replies Ken, sounding like he understands, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

I'm glad he's not prying and I'm _super_ glad he's not hurt. It would have been nice – _more_ than nice – to live with him again when he returns from Scotland. But even though part of me desperately wanted it, there was another part, a stronger one, that was reluctant. Not because of Ken, but because… it's _a lot_ , living in a palace. The security is great, of course, as is the comfort, but… somehow, I have a feeling there will be moments when I'll feel grateful to be able to return to my normal, un-palace-y home. (Though to what extend a fully-renovated mews house in South Kensington can truly be considered _normal_ is another matter.)

"Besides," I tell Ken, making sure for my voice to sound upbeat, "Beckett had a look at my new house and was satisfied to let you stay there. And Reed updated my security credentials, so I can come keep you company at your palace any time as well. One way or another, I expect we will see a lot of each other from May on."

"I can't wait," he replies, his voice warm.

"No," I agree, smiling. "Me either."

Looking up, I see the familiar red circle of the London Underground hovering above my head. "I'm at the tube," I inform Ken. "Which means I'll let you get back to your all-important work now. Reception down there is crappy more times than not."

"I'll take your word for it," he remarks, reminding me again that he has never ridden the tube in his life. (It's the little things about him being, well, _him_ , that still strike me, even after so many years.) "Call me when you're settled at the new place?"

"I will," I promise. "Might be late though."

"No matter," he assures me. (See? Even in the military, there are perks if you're a royal. I doubt the other soldiers just get to take calls from their girlfriends in the middle of the night.) I can hear him smiling when he adds, "I love you."

"Me, too." There's an automatic smile on my own lips as I say it. You just never tire of hearing _some_ things, do you?

Ending the call, I submerge into the deep abyss that is the London Underground, to re-emerge in Croydon almost an hour later. (Dratted delays!)

Seeing as I haven't been to Croydon in weeks, it's mercifully free of photographers, which is such an unusual occurrence that it almost feels odd. Though in fairness, I have to admit that they are a lot less intrusive in general. Apparently, if the right people warn them off, they understand that.

Just days after I was rescued from that blasted fitting room, Buckingham Palace and Kensington Palace (or, more formally, _The Office of their Majesties The King and The Queen_ and _The Office of His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales_ ) sent out a joint communique, protesting the press's treatment of me and publicly asking them to back off and be more respectful. (They used a lot more fancy words for it though.) Of course, that communique itself lead to _a lot_ of headlines (many of them speculating about an upcoming engagement, which is just… ugh), but the press people got the message.

Of course, I'm still getting photographed, but there's _much_ less harassment. Additionally, Tony's lawyer colleague send out a nice letter in my name, reminding them that it's not exactly legal to photograph someone who is on private grounds (or, you know, in their own sodding _kitchen_ ), which apparently is also a language they understand.

In short, they're giving me a much easier time and as I walk through Croydon without a photographer in sight, I feel I can breathe easier than I did all autumn.

I actually enjoy my little stroll, which is more than I ever could have said about walking through Croydon, and when I arrive at my old home, the others are already waiting for me outside the building. Lucy is talking to Damian, a look of deep scepticism on her face. (I should probably have warned him that if there ever was a woman he couldn't charm, Lucy is it.) Dev is chatting animatedly with a somewhat befuddled-looking Tony.

As I reach them, I can hear what Dev is saying.

"– you wouldn't think it, given how far up north they are, but St Andrews has a _marvellous_ ice cream parlour! I got chatting with the owner and he was very open to creating new flavours. We experimented a bit and came up with the most _amazing_ Cullin skink ice cream. It's a Scottish fish soup and it works wonderfully well as an ice cream. If you're ever up in St Andrews, you must go there and try it! Tell them Dev sent you."

Tony blinks.

I hide a smile and send a thought of commiseration to the unfortunate owner of that ice cream parlour. Since Dev was up in St Andrews to visit Josh, it's likely they went there together and steamrolled the poor owner into letting them try their hand at creating new ice creams. (Though it's likely Dev did the steamrolling all on his own. He needs no support in doing that. It's his very best party trick.) I don't even want to imagine the so-called 'flavours' those two come up with when left to experiment.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" asks Lucy, deadpan, and wraps an arm around me in greeting.

"Perfectly disgusting," I agree cheerfully.

Behind her, I see Damian looking at us. Or no, I think he's looking at Lucy, specifically. His expression is a mixture of perfect confusion and reluctant fascination. He very much looks like he can't wrap around the fact that there's a woman unimpressed by him and frankly, it's hilarious.

"Looks like you got a fan," I tell Lucy quietly, not even trying to hide my grin.

She rolls her eyes most spectacularly. "He really does think he's God's gift to womankind, doesn't he?" she murmurs back.

"He _is_ good-looking," I point out, my grin growing wider.

Lucy gives me a patented Lucy-look that manages to convey _exactly_ what she thinks about Damian. I just laugh at her and, though she tries to maintain her glare, I see a smile creeping through at the edges. Following an impulse, I reach out to squeeze her hand. It's good to have her back.

Her internship in Ireland ended in late February. Her two prestigious Oxford degrees, years of volunteering at local museums and several internships were apparently _just_ enough to land her a job at the Foundling Museum here in London. From what I gathered, it's a lowly position that pays pittance (in fact, pay is so bad she had to move back in with her parents in Surrey and commute in every day), but she says the work is fascinating and I suppose that makes up for a lot.

For his part, Dev returned to London last month as well. I'm unclear what he plans to do for a living, but it's not like his family is short of money, so I suppose it's not a pressing matter. When Lucy asked him about it, he claimed his job required him to know every ice cream parlour between here and Timbuktu. If that's true, it's the best person-to-job fit I ever encountered.

Case in point:

"– recommend haggis and chili ice cream," Dev is currently telling an increasingly horrified Tony. "If that's not your poison, Josh combined gammon and pineapple to great effect. And we even did a Christmas special! It's turkey with cranberry and it's just fabulous! And the Jamaican Christmas Special takes your classic rum and raisin, trebles the rum, adds candied cherries and orange peel and then some more rum for good measure. We also wanted to do something with Mince pie, but then Lucy called and said it was sacrilegious and that she had to intervene in behalf of the mince, so we made sage and onion stuffing flavour instead. Oh, and I _have_ to tell you about the curry flavours –"

Tony looks like he might be sick and I take that as my cue to intervene. I don't think his stomach would react kindly to the thought of Tika Masala ice cream.

"Boys? Shall we get moving?" I ask them, trying to hide a smile.

Tony looks utterly relieved. Dev looks not a bit disappointed.

"But I haven't even told Toby about the paprika chicken salad ice cream!" he protests. "Nor about pig ear ice cream!"

Tony turns slightly green at the thought. (I just dearly hope the name for pig ear ice cream is used metaphorically.)

"You can tell _me_ about it," I reply, looping my arm through Dev's and pulling him forward towards the door of the apartment building. As I unlock it, I suddenly realise that this is the last time I will ever have to enter it and by God, it feels _good_.

Honestly, after the utter despair of the last few months, it's still a little hard to believe how quickly and decisively things have turned for the better. I was so convinced to be stuck in a hellish situation I couldn't get out of that I didn't realise it was in truth a hellish situation I couldn't get out of _by myself_. And while that doesn't sound like much of a difference, it really changed everything around.

The one thing it needed was for me to open my mouth and ask for help. I guess there's a moral if there ever was one, right?

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written_ _by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966_ _)._

* * *

 ** _A/N: I'm back! And I don't have another vacation planned for the next twelve or so weeks, so we should get some ground covered before then. I hope you enjoy the next chapters and am, as ever, looking forward to your comments!_**

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _I wrote the last chapter back in November, so whenever I had reviews coming in, imploring Rilla to finally_ talk _, I was basically bouncing up and down and thinking, "Soon! Soon!" It's part of what made it so satisfying to post that chapter ;). I mean, it's not like everything is suddenly resolved, but I think she learned some important lessons. For one, it's the fact that you have to ask for help if you want help to be given and for another, it's the realisation that she has to talk about what weighs on her. As you said, she felt she had no proper cause to complain, but it got to a point where her silence became unhealthy and she needed to say what she said, if only to finally acknowledge to herself that the way she was being treated was not okay.  
Of course, when it comes to unhealthy silence, Ken is miles and leaps ahead of her - and not in a good way! As you said, he's in dire need of help to work through what was a very real and damaging childhood trauma, but I don't think he's arrived at that conclusion yet. He can't acknowledge how much it still affects him because that would make his fragile construct of "being alright" crumble around him. He needs to address that and at some point, he will, but that's still a while off yet. He also took a big step forward in opening up to Rilla, but that didn't miraculously resolve everything.  
In that vein, I loved how you said "I want to hug him and I want to scold him", because that's precisely what I was going for. He had a difficult and traumatic childhood (which you sum up perfectly in your review) and he is due sympathy and understanding for that, but that doesn't excuse any and all behaviour. He still failed Rilla and his past trauma doesn't negate that fact. She can understand him better and that's important, but it's not catch all-excuse for how he treated her in the past months. I think Rilla realises that, too, which is why she is comforting him at the end of the chapter, but not absolving him of everything she told him previously. That still stands. Her truth isn't negated by his truth, they both stand alongside each other, and I think that's important.  
As for Leslie, yes, I think she's doomed to have a tragic life in every iteration. In contrast to Ken though, she got help and she got better, which is why she can talk to Rilla relatively calmly. ("Call me Leslie," is mostly because she's opening up her deepest secrets to this woman, so it would feel awkward to be addressed as "Your Majesty", which is a title Leslie doesn't like anyway.) She's not completely well and I think she never will be, but she understood the need to get help, which is a realisation both Rilla and Ken are only just making, each in their own way._

 _To Insertnamehere:_  
 _Yes, Jerry really did cheat on Nan. No misunderstanding there, I'm sorry to say. I do promise that it happened for a reason that will turn out to be relevant to the plot and not just for needless drama. Unusually for me, I haven't completely decided how I want to proceed with Jerry and Nan, so I'm not ruling out a reconciliation, but I'm also not promising one. I can, however, say that there won't be a permanent rift between the families. Things might be a bit awkward for a while and Jerry won't be everyone's favourite person, but everyone is adult enough not to let it tear the families apart. If nothing else, there's still Jem and Faith to connect them!_

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _I shall pick a Dylan title more often if that's enough to summon you ;). In fact, I believe this very chapter has one! (No, I kid. I always love hearing from you, but I understand life is a busy thing. No pressure.)  
I had a rough outline for that Leslie chapter in my head from the very beginning, so I've been carrying this with me for about 1.5 years. It was _so _satisfying to finally write and then post it, but also a bit nerve-wrecking. With these big, important chapters, you never know whether they will be received as you mean them to. I think this one didn't fail me though, so that's definitely a relief :).  
I had Leslie's entire backstory planned pretty much from the beginning, too. I tried to take her canon story and adjust it to fit the circumstances of this story. For one, I didn't want to gloss over Dick Moore the way canon did, because we all know he abused her in every possible way. And while canon Leslie has an inner core strength, she "only" had to suffer Dick for a year (not seven) and after meeting Owen, she presumably got a quiet and happy life, which allowed her to recover from her past. In my story, I didn't give her that. She's in a frail state of mind after her marriage, but here, meeting Owen isn't her salvation, it's her final downfall. She's thrust into a kind of public life she detests and has pressure put on her until she buckles. Owen loved her (and loves her still) and wanted her as his wife, not considering that she's unsuited to the role. His mother might have been cruel in trying to prise them apart, but she had a point - Leslie was never going to be a good queen. I think that's the main take away from their story: "Love is important, but love isn't enough."  
I think it's too early for Rilla to realise that fully, but it will come back later. She's already realised that the fairy tale isn't real and that her prince won't protect her. She has to have a network of support and she has to face up to her struggles herself. It's part of what makes her different from Leslie, I think, alongside her background and her disposition. She's beginning to see that Ken has weaknesses, but also slowly starting to realise that she can be strong if she has to be. That strength will be called upon in the future and she will see just what she's capable of.  
I'm very sorry to hear about your Dad. It's really tough for children when the parents aren't well (and for the parents, too, because there's a lot of guilt involved, even though no-one is ever at fault when it comes to illness). As you said, talking is so very important, because while the situation my persist, it's so important for everyone, children especially, to understand what is happening and to know they're not alone. I think one of the most crippling effects of mental illness is loneliness, both in those suffering and in their loved ones. While talking is no instant cure, it helps drive away the feeling of loneliness and in my experience, that counts for a lot.  
_

 _To Mammu:  
No matter! This will be a short reply, too, as I want to get this chapter posted ;). I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter and I'm glad Leslie's story worked for you. I've been sitting on it for a while, and on Ken's trauma as well. I do believe they learned a bit about the importance of communication and can, hopefully, build on that. And yes, vacation was lovely :)._


	65. Come gather round

_London, England  
April 2014_

 **Come gather round**

Di stops dead in her tracks. " _This_ is where you live?" She's staring down the row of uber-fancy Victorian terraced houses with an expression of deep scepticism – and I can't even blame her.

"Not quite," I placate her, though I have a distinct feeling my actual abode won't invoke a very different reaction.

Turning, I see Nan peek through the fence of the communal garden. It occupies much of the square that is bordered by rows of fancy terraced houses.

"It's a garden square," I explain. "They're a London thing, or so I've been told. Only residents get a key."

"Do you have one?" asks Joy. Nan looks vaguely hopeful. (It _is_ a very pretty garden, there's no denying that.)

"I don't, but my landlords do. I know where their key is kept. We can go in sometime if you like," I offer.

Nan nods earnestly. "Yes, please. It looks like stories should be set here."

"If they are, it's undoubtedly stories about an unconventional, spirited earl's daughter falling in love with a poor but rakish merchantman," Di remarks laconically.

"Who then comes into a surprising inheritance," I spin her idea further.

"Naturally," Di acknowledges.

"Or else," supplies Joy, "it's about a beautiful and principled kitchen maid falling for the handsome but arrogant heir who turns out to hide a dark, tragic secret."

"Sounds familiar, Rilla?" Di teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

(My sisters haven't even been in the country for three hours and already, there's been lots of teasing. They were positively delighted when Nan spotted a newspaper in the tube, headlining with an article about Douchebag Chad signing on for Big Brother. I wasn't amused.)

Turning my nose up at Di, I shake my head decidedly. "Indeed it _doesn't_ sound familiar. You forget that no sane person would hire me as a kitchen maid."

"Touché." Di grins.

"Just for the record," pipes up Nan, frowning. "Those were _not_ the kind of stories I meant."

"Not?" Joy feigns surprise. "You mean our ideas lacked the element of an arranged marriage?"

"Always a classic!" I agree brightly.

Nan huffs. "You are incorrigible. All three of you!"

"What can we say? It's all in the genes," Di shoots back, grinning from ear to ear. Nan throws her a withering look.

Joy, ever the peacemaker in our group of sisters (and very possibly only there), reaches out to link arms with Nan. "How's this? We'll go visit the garden tomorrow and then you can tell us the kind of story you were thinking of."

Nan considers her doubtfully as Joy pulls her along the sidewalk, Di and me trotting after them. "Are you making fun of me?" Nan wants to know.

"Wouldn't dream of it," promises Joy, even raising her hand to cover her heart. (The corners of her mouth, however, are twitching suspiciously, belying her attempt at seriousness.)

To draw Nan's attention away from our teasing of her, I suggest, "I thought we could go to Portobello Road Market up in Notting Hill tomorrow. It's a food market during the week, but Saturday is when all the stalls are open. It can get pretty crowded, but if we're there early, it shouldn't be too bad."

As I hoped, that piques Nan's interest immediately. "I heard of that one! They sell antiques, don't they?"

"Among other things," I confirm. "Antiques, clothes, second hand stuff…"

Nan's face visibly brightens.

"Just remember that there's a maximum weight limit on checked bags…" remarks Di pointedly, eyebrows raised.

Nan clucks her tongue at her twin. "I can have it shipped." Then, turning to me, "Can't I have it shipped?"

I raise both hands. "Feel free." (Doesn't really affect me what she does with her purchases, does it?)

"Excellent," declares Nan. "We can also go to the other one, can't we? Camden Market?"

"Sure," I agree. "Best do that during the week though, to escape the weekend crowds."

"Speaking of markets," Joy chimes in. "Could we also go to Borough Market sometime during the week? I might want to stock up on herbs and spices and I heard it's a good place for specialty food."

"Also for good street food," I add. "It's not far from the office and we like to go there during lunch break."

"At least spices don't weigh much," Di mutters audibly.

Joy lightly slaps the back of her head. "We shall see how many pounds in vintage clothing you end up buying."

Valid point!

Di grumbles, making the rest of us laugh even louder.

We've reached a vaulted archway at the end of a row of terraced houses and I stop to unlock the gate, before waving my sisters through. (When the gate falls shut, it effectively locks out the photographers who have been following us at a distance.) Behind the big houses at the front runs a small, cobbled street with a row of narrower buildings, ducking in the shadows of their larger counterparts.

The mews houses dotted all over London were used to stable horses and carriages, back when horses and carriages were still a thing. When they _stopped_ being a thing – and the number of families rich enough to maintain a large town house dwindled significantly – most mews houses were turned into residential homes, around the same time as the big front houses were sectioned into flats.

With the de Duras family being among the very few still able to keep a town house, theirs remains intact, but their horses and carriages have long been relocated to the country. Lucky for me, I reckon, because otherwise, I'd be less a home right now.

Directing my sisters to a white-painted brick house, I move to unlock the front door.

" _This_ is where you live?" asks Di, in an imitation of herself just minutes earlier.

I smile to myself, but don't answer. I knew she'd question this as well. While much smaller and less fancy than the terraced houses up front, it should still be absolutely impossible for me to rent my 'little' mews house. (And really, it _would_ be impossible but for Rolly and Genie's extreme kindness.)

While I'm still considering what to answer Di, I can hear Joy enquiring, "Do I spy a garage? Don't tell me you have a _car_ to go with all of this."

Rolling my eyes, I turn to look at her. "No sane person drives in London, just as no sane person drives in New York. Rolly uses the garage for his beloved Rolls Royce. It's older than our parents."

"Rolly?" repeats Nan questioningly.

"He and his wife Genie are my landlords. Their daughter is a friend," I explain.

"That would be Tatty, correct?" Joy wants to know.

I nod confirmation. Looks like someone paid attention.

"They all have fancy British titles, don't they?" Joy further enquiries, frowning as if to recall details.

"And _a lot_ of money," adds Di, more statement than question, as she takes in the exterior of my home.

"They have both." I nod. "And they're gracious enough to let me stay here for… well, considerably less than market rent."

In fact, originally, they didn't want to take any money at all. Only when I insisted most stubbornly did we find a compromise and thus, my rent is now officially fixed at – in Genie's words – "whatever you can afford". It won't surprise anyone to know that that's not a lot. I'm _much_ happier working for Pamela than I ever was working for Marcia and the work itself is much more interesting, too (I actually get to _plan_ things, for one), but it pays even less. In fact, I'd be surprised if my 'rent' even went so far as to cover ancillary costs.

"That's nice of them," Nan decides, smiling at me, and that seems to settle that subject. (I'm glad of it, too. I still feel a little uncomfortable with this arrangement and don't need it questioned, not even by my sisters.)

Pushing open the front door, I invite them in with a sweeping gesture. "Step inside, please!"

"Do we get a tour?" asks Joy, looking around curiously.

"That was the idea," I confirm. "Just drop your suitcases in the hallway. We'll pick them up later."

Closing the door, I slip past them through the wide, arched opening leading into the kitchen. It's a funnily triangular room, drenched in light by three patterned lead glass window. The actual kitchen – white and understated – occupies the narrow end and an oval-shaped wooden table stands right in front of us.

"Nice," commends Di.

"I love the windows!" exclaims Nan, leaning forward to examine them closer.

"There are more of those upstairs, some even with a border of coloured glass," I tell her. Truth to be told, I myself am not entirely convinced by the windows (they _are_ pretty old-fashioned), but I guess they suit the feeling of the house. And anyway, Nan seems quite enamoured with them, while Joy is busy inspecting the kitchen. Di just rolls her eyes at them both.

With the garage occupying a large chunk of the downstairs, there's no more room for anything but the kitchen, hall and a half-bathroom, so I direct my sisters upstairs next.

"Come on, up to the first floor," I invite them.

They follow me, but I spy Nan and Di exchanging an amused look. Joy, for her part, reaches out to pat my shoulder. "They're really doing their best to turn you into a little Brit, aren't they?" she asks, grinning.

I frown at her, confused.

" _Second_ floor," emphasises Di. "We're going up to the _second_ floor."

We're… oh. Right.

"Whatever," I reply, the ultimate passive-aggressive response. " _Second_ floor, then."

That just draws more laughter from all three.

Ignoring them, I stomp the last steps up towards the _second_ floor, where the staircase opens directly into what is fancily called the reception room but is really a plain old living room. It is, I must admit, one of the nicer ones, large and airy with a set of French doors leading out to a pretty wrought-iron balcony. To my regret, someone bricked up the fireplace, but if I desire an open fire, I can always pop over to Genie and Rolly when they're in town or else, there are a few palaces where I'm welcome. (Such is my life. I know.)

Di eyes the sofas. "Those look comfy," she remarks.

"They are," I agree. "Good for lounging on. But this house also comes with enough bedrooms so that no-one actually has to sleep on one."

"Of course it does," teases Joy, winking at me when I glare.

Leading them into a short hall, I open the first door. "Bathroom," I explain – needlessly, I reckon. Everyone should recognise a bathroom, after all, and while this is a nice one – all fancy beige marble – it's undeniably a bathroom. It also comes with a tub, which puts it higher in my esteem than the main bathroom upstairs.

Opening the next door, I begin to explain, "This is –"

"Tiny," Di finishes for me.

She's not wrong. It's technically a bedroom, but so small that there's barely enough space for a twin bed and a bed stand. Size-wise, it's more of a pantry.

I shrug. "Well, it's one of three. I doubt I'll ever have reason to use it."

"No, it's good!" protests Joy. "That way, when I send you the kids in summer, they can each have their own room and your life will be much easier."

Um…

"The kids? In summer?" I repeat, feeling confused.

Joy blinks. "Didn't I tell you?"

Evidently not.

"Dan has a conference in Rome in July and I'm accompanying him. We're dropping off Jake and Izzie here on our way," my sister graciously informs me. (Behind her, Di sniggers.)

"Well, that's… that's good to know," I stutter.

"Thought you might like a heads-up," Joy replies brightly.

(We're both joking though. I'm glad to have the kids with me and she knows it.)

"I guess in that case, I will get to use the pantry bedroom after all," I muse. "This one's much smaller, but I'll make Persis take a nap in here and tell Izzie a real princess slept in this very bed. That should do the trick."

"I applaud your cunning sense of manipulation," comments Joy drily, making the rest of us laugh.

"I'll really ask Persis to do it!" I defend myself, though laughing myself. "It won't even be a lie!"

I _will_ ask her, too. Persis and I don't have sleepovers as much as we did when I technically lived at Ken's place, but Persis is here quite frequently, or else I'm at her place. We go up to Windsor almost every weekend to ride and we're also having dinner with her parents with reasonable frequency, either there or at Buck House. These dinners aren't nearly as odd as they were in the beginning. Seeing as she's more reserved and less easy-going than Owen, my interaction with Leslie didn't come nearly as naturally, but we're both making an effort and I think we'll get there yet.

At any rate, it all combines to ensure that I'm not nearly as lonely as I was last year, even though Ken is _still_ in Scotland. If I'm not with his family, I'm seeing Katie and Tatty, or going out with some colleagues from work, or, most frequently, spend my time with Lucy and Dev. Lucy stays over quite frequently, too, when work keeps her too late to catch the train home. (I even considered offering her to move in, but it would feel awkward to ask Rolly and Genie to put up not only me at a peppercorn rent but my friend as well. Maybe I'll work up the courage someday, but right now, it's all still a bit new.)

Leaving the pantry bedroom behind, I open the door to the last room on the first – _second_ – floor. This bedroom is both good-sized and airy, with a comfortable queen-size bed in the middle that is currently occupied by a sleeping George. (You wouldn't think an animal as small as he is could occupy an entire bed, but let me assure you it's totally possible.)

"George!" Joy smiles. "I haven't seen him since he left New York. How is he?"

"Good, good," I answer and thankfully, it's the truth, too. If possible, George was even happier to move here than I was. At KP, I still kept him indoors for safety reasons, but since moving here, he's been allowed to roam again. He took possession of the house with incredible speed and now considers the entire neighbourhood his territory. In the beginning, he sometimes came home looking distinctly dishevelled, but also pretty pleased, leading me to believe said territory used to belong to other cats before. But I guess the posh Kensington cats can't hold a candle to a real Brooklyn street fighter.

"My landlord, Rolly, is quite taken with him," I continue, looking at George fondly. "When Genie and Rolly are here, I see much less of George than normally. I think Rolly has more time for cuddles _and_ a bigger supply of Dreamies than I do."

"Important matters to consider," agrees Nan with a smile.

George would concur, I'm sure, if he weren't so busy being stubbornly asleep.

Shaking my head at my cat (but with affection!), I change the subject. "If George surrenders the bed, I thought Nan and Di could sleep here. Joy, you can sleep upstairs with me, or else in the pantry bedroom."

"Upstairs sounds good," agrees Joy. (Can't blame her. The pantry bedroom _is_ tiny.)

The upstairs – second or third floor, depending on your preference – has a hall with inbuilt wardrobes that come incredibly handy. The bathroom is white and big, with a his-and-hers sink and large walk-in shower (easily space for two in there). The adjacent master bedroom is huge, the biggest room in the house, and it even comes with a bay window, which I know would please Mum.

Di whistled softly as she looks around the room. "There's certainly an advantage to having friends in high places," she remarks, but with no vitriol in her voice.

I shrug. "It's incredibly nice of Rolly and Genie to let me live here."

"It sure is," agrees Joy.

Nan, meanwhile, has already crossed the room and opened the door to the terrace, peering outside. "This is lovely!" she declares. "It's south-facing, too, isn't it? Imagine the tan you'll get here in summer!"

"Topless, preferably?" asks Di sarcastically.

I grin. "Absolutely. If I ever decide there should be _more_ photographs of me in the papers, I'll be sure to do that."

Nan sticks out her tongue first at Di, then at me and lastly at Joy. (Probably for good measure.) But when the rest of us just laugh, she joins in easily.

"Come on, let's go bring our stuff upstairs and then look into making dinner," suggests Joy once we've quieted again. It's a most sensible suggestion indeed, so it's exactly what we end up doing.

Thus, an hour and a shopping trip later, we're gathered downstairs. Joy has commandeered the kitchen, so the twins and I are left to sit at the dining table and watch Joy whirl around in preparation for some undoubtedly delicious dish. Even George has deigned to come downstairs, now lying spread out on the dining table and accepting strokes from Nan and ear scratches from Di.

"– this group of female students in Winnipeg who've been pretty vocal about the prejudices women and girls face for decisions and actions that should be none of anybody's business," Di is in the process of explaining. "They used the media treatment of you as an example and went on the record as saying they support you and would like you to know they stand behind you. It's pretty sweet."

"How nice of them!" exclaims Nan.

"Very good cause," confirms Joy. "Girls have to stand up for each other."

True words.

Di looks at me. "I know you can't publicly endorse them, but if it's okay, I thought I could get in touch with them. Not as an intermediate, but just as me, telling them they're doing a good job."

"You do that," I agree. Then, making a quick decision, I add, "And you know what? I'll write them an email, too. Not just because it's sweet of them to support me, but because they're spreading an important truth. If I could somehow support them back, I'd like that."

"Are you allowed to do that?" asks Nan, frowning.

I shrug. "Who's to forbid it? Not the royal family for sure. And if the press doesn't like it, well… they can go to hell. Politely."

"Of course they can." Di grins widely. "There's the spir– Whatever is the matter with that cat?"

Taken aback, she looks at George who has raised his head, listening intently, and is now jumping off the table in a flash and darting towards the front door.

I don't answer. Because I know there's just one single person George would greet like that. (Except for me, that is.)

Rushing after him, I reach the door just when the bell starts to ring. When I wrench the door open, Ken still has his finger on the button.

"Hello love," he greets cheerfully.

I stare at him for the fraction of a second, before launching myself at him, wrapping both arms around his neck and pressing my face into his shoulder. His arms come up to encircle my waist and I feel him burrow his nose in my hair.

"I'm happy to see you, too," he murmurs. "So, so happy."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, voice muffled.

"I'm in town for the weekend. I wanted to surprise you," he replies and I know he's smiling.

It's a good surprise, too. In fact, it's an _excellent_ surprise. He's gotten much better at keeping in touch and checking up on me, but I haven't seen him since that fateful day in February. That day when, after Leslie's confession and a somewhat awkward lunch with his parents, Ken insisted on installing me at Wren House personally. We spent the night there, holding one another and talking into the early hours of the morning, about his past and my present and about how we both struggled – and still do, at times. It was possibly the hardest conversation I ever had, but it cleared up so much. It also rekindled that special understanding we had lost and ever since then, I've felt closer to him than in a long time, despite the physical distance.

All of which is to say, I am very, very, _very_ happy to see him.

When he tips up my head and kisses me, I melt into the kiss, only too ready to forget everything around me that isn't him and his touch and his –

"Ahem."

Ken freezes. I silently curse my sisters to hell and back.

Turning my head slightly to look over my shoulder, I see all three of them standing in the hallway, showing near-identical grins of smugness. Damn them! Can't they… I don't know… spontaneously disappear?

"That… that is next week, isn't it?" asks Ken, somewhat feebly, as he looks at my grinning sisters.

"No," Di informs him blithely, " _that_ is this week."

Ken sighs. "Drat. Sorry. I got my dates confused. I didn't want to muscle in on your sister week."

He's not planning on _leaving_ , is he? (I tighten my hold on him a little, just to be sure.)

"I'll just… I'll go and stay at KP," Ken continues, sounding in equal parts resigned and apologetic. "Forget I ever came."

No. Not happening.

"Nonsense," Joy protests quickly. "You can stay. The more, the merrier."

(On second thought, Joy might not have to go to hell after all.)

"Yeah," adds Di. "This place has, like, 2000 square feet or something. It's not like we're short of space."

(And Di gets to stay out of hell, too. Good for her.)

"Really, Ken. You must stay," insists Nan. "We'll just pop Joy into the pantry and then we're all set."

(And Nan makes the set. No-one bound for hell anymore. How nice.)

"The… the pantry?" echoes Ken, knitting his brows in confusion.

"I'll show you later," I placate him, smiling. "It's not as bad as it sounds."

"I should hope so," he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

Behind me, I hear shuffling and turn just in time to see my sisters return to the kitchen. Nan carries George who, obviously indignant at not having been greeted first, gives Ken and me his best glare.

"We'll leave you two to your greeting," Joy announces, grinning widely. "Dinner should be done in about fifteen minutes."

(Okay. Looks like Joy's bound for hell again.)

In light of such cheek, I briefly consider going after her and retaliating, but then Ken raises a hand to my face and gently turns me back towards him and I decide to let it slide. I can always hit Joy over the head some other time.

The lack of a door between the kitchen and the hall means there's limited privacy, but we make the best with what we have. After the weeks of separation and considering the difficult circumstances surrounding our last meeting, I think neither of us can get enough of the other.

In fact, at some point, I feel myself compelled to caution, "I have to warn you –"

Ken stills, his shoulders tensing slightly.

"– there will be, under no circumstances, any sex for you while my sisters are sleeping downstairs," I finish.

A moment passes, before I feel his body relaxing again, his laugh rumbling through him. "Serves me right for getting the dates confused, I guess," he remarks, clearly amused.

Then, not giving me a chance to reply, he kisses me again, a kiss so slow and sensual that I very nearly regret the boundaries I put up. (The kiss is designed to do just that, as I'm fully aware.) But I also know without a doubt that if they so much as hear a peep from us tonight, my sisters won't stop teasing me for the entire week, so I stand firm. (Or, you know, don't walk back on my resolution openly.)

His point sufficiently made, Ken leans back a little and looks down at me, smiling. "Dinner?" He asks, nodding toward the opening leading to the kitchen.

"Dinner," I agree. Turning, I grasp his hand and pull him with me.

(I wonder if I will ever again see Ken in a kitchen without remembering that his interest in cooking only came about because he escaped to the palace kitchen when things were particularly tough during his childhood. It was there that their cook first showed him the basic rules of meal prepping, which is equal parts touching and sad.)

Shaking my head, I push the thought aside.

"Joy is cooking for us tonight," I tell Ken as we enter the room where Joy is, indeed, back to weaving her culinary magic. Nan and Di are seated at the dinner table again, while George sits next to his bowl, munching on something that I'm sure wasn't part of his diet plan. (Six months of being scooped up in a small apartment weren't good for his figure. Neither is Rolly Faversham.)

"Smells good," remarks Ken, coming up behind me to wrap his arms around my waist. "Presumably, the kitchen is getting used for the first time tonight?"

Di snorts with laughter.

"I'll have you know that I use this kitchen _plenty_ ," I announce haughtily.

Nan fails miserably at stifling her laugh.

"To make cereal?" asks Ken innocently and drops a kiss on the back of my neck.

"Yes." I nod proudly. "And to make coffee." This with a fond look at my very plain, very reliable drip coffee maker. It might be horrible old-fashioned but it only has one single button and that's an unbeatable point in its favour.

"Coffee. Of course." Laughing softly, Ken pulls me a little closer and nestles his face into the crook of my neck.

He's not usually so affectionate when we're in company and I'm not usually so ready to accept his affections when we aren't alone, but today… with everything that's happened, I guess today, the usual rules just don't apply.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a look at my sister. Di might roll her eyes a little and Nan might look a bit wistful and Joy might have her eyebrows halfway raised, but they're also all of them smiling fondly at us, which is… nice. (I know there will still be teasing later. I just don't really care.)

Looking at them, I am suddenly struck by an idea. A splendid idea, if I may say so myself.

"Hey, Ken." I reach up to tap a finger against the back of his head. "Remember how you promised me a tour of Buckingham Palace, oh, _three years ago_?"

Ken raises his head and straightens a little, but without removing his arms from around my waist. (Not that I want him to.) "I did promise that," he acknowledges. "But for one, I'd bet good money that my father long beat me to giving you a tour and for another, you're there once or twice a week for dinner with my parents anyway. You don't need a tour."

Well, no. I really don't. But this isn't about me anyway, is it.

" _I_ don't," I stress. "But _they_ might like one." I indicate my sisters, who are following our exchange with interest. Joy even briefly seems to have stopped with the culinary magic-weaving.

"We would like a tour very much," confirms Nan, appearing very taken with the idea. Di makes a show of looking unimpressed, but she, too, is nodding. Joy clanks some plates together in what I suppose is agreement.

Ken looks at them, then shrugs. "Sure, if you'd like to. Private Buckingham Palace tour coming up tomorrow afternoon. Would you fancy dinner afterwards?"

Really! As if anyone was saying no to that!

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'I Want It All' (written_ _by Brian May, released by Queen in 1989_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Oh, yes, Rilla is in a much ok-er situation now than she was before. Better job, better home, better protection - and even, in a way, a better boyfriend, because_ someone _is making an effort! He's still himself and won't get everything right, but he did try to listen to Rilla and he is trying to do better now. As you said, he needs to work on his trauma and he needs to overcome it to properly face a new future, but he's taking steps in that direction. We shall watch him closely to see how that work out for him, yes? ;)  
I'm glad you agree with Rilla's (and my) decision not to have her move into Kensington Palace permanently. Of course, she and Ken lived together in Oxford, but that had much less pressure attached. Living in a palace is a major thing, regardless who you're living _with _, and for the time being, Rilla needs peace and quiet, more than anything. At her own place, she can relax in a way she probably couldn't at one of the palaces, which is good for her. (Also, this is the first time in a while that she's made a decision for herself instead of following the path of least resistance and there's quite some significance to that.)  
Now, as for Dev and his ice cream... if I'm being honest, that's just because I find it amusing ;)._

 _To Mammu:  
I promised things would be looking up, didn't I? ;) I shall even promise things will continue to look up for quite some time. I've written ahead a bit and I haven't yet reached the point where it all goes catawampus again, so right now, everything is jolly nice for everyone. And if 'lightly' isn't a word, it absolutely should be one!  
Ken answering the phone so quickly probably involves him telling a little lie to his superiors. "My girlfriend is calling" won't fly with them, but "this is my father on the phone - you know, my father the _King _" should do the trick. He's using some of those royals perks of his and it's about time.  
The apartment will indeed do them good, both because it provides Rilla with a place she can unwind, but also because Ken gets a bolthole again. He's facing some of his demons and we will see him make an effort with his parents, so he's due a safe place, too. Plus, it always does him good to be told No once in a while and while Rilla did it nicely, she did tell him No here. And we're all for Rilla asserting herself!  
_


	66. Portraits hung in empty halls

_London, England  
April 2014_

 **Portraits hung in empty halls**

"Rilla?" asks Di warily. "They're looking at us."

"Ignore them," I tell her without turning my head.

"But they're taking pictures of us!" protests Di.

"Ignore them," I repeat.

It's not like she can do anything about it anyway. Tourists will photograph anything they consider mildly interesting (or, really, anything their guide book tells them to) and unfortunately, there's more than just a _mild_ interest in us.

Di glowers at a group of young women who excitedly wave their phones in the air and chatter in what I think is Spanish. Thankfully, Nan quickly puts an arm around her twin and pulls her along. No-one wants a glaring Di to feature on the holiday snaps of some random Spanish tourists.

Taking my own advice to ignore the crowds that are always gathered in front of Buckingham Palace, I lead my sisters onwards. We weave through the melee of people until we've reached the North Gate, where I signal for them to stop.

"Hello," I greet the uniformed guard brightly.

"Miss." He nods in greeting, clearly recognising me.

"I'm here with –" Frowning, I interrupt myself. "Wait. Am I even allowed to bring people here? If not, maybe you could phone inside and have someone ask Ken – I mean, His Royal Highness –"

"No need, Miss," the guard assures me and though his expression remains professionally neutral, I think I can see an amused glint in his eye. "Your security clearance permits you to bring visitors."

Well.

Well.

"In that case… these are Mrs Joyce Raine and Misses Anne and Diana Blythe." I gesture at the respective sister as I list their names, feeling very much like a character from a Jane Austen novel.

"Very well, Miss." The guard steps aside to let us through the gate. "I wish you a pleasant day."

"You, too," I reply quickly, only belatedly realising how weird that sounds. After all, he'll spend the day guarding this gate, which mostly means that he moves very little and gets photographed a lot.

Still, no chance to take the words back, especially as my sisters now follow me through the gate. Nan looks up at the looming façade of Buckingham Palace, her eyes wide. Di throws a suspicious look over her shoulder, though whether at the guard or at the tourists, I can't tell.

Joy, meanwhile, leans closer to me to ask, "So you can just march in here whenever it pleases you?"

I shrug. "I appear to have clearance for Buck House, KP and Windsor," I explain quietly, feeling a tad uncomfortable. "I don't know about their other places. Osborne, Sandringham and Balmoral are private residences, after all."

"Wouldn't make sense to keep you locked out of those," Joy points out, not wrongly.

"Especially as they also let you bring in random people," adds Nan, taking her eyes off the facade. (It's impressive more than pretty, if you ask me.)

"Hardly random," I object.

We walk through one of the arches and Di turns back to the front, obviously deeming the distance between us and the people on the outside of the fence to be large enough. "Even so," she insists, "you could bring anyone in here. Imagine if you were some kind of spy or something."

"Or a _murderer_!" Nan sounds unreasonably fascinated by the idea.

"Maybe they think that if I were out to murder any royals, I would have done it by now?" I suggest, sarcasm lacing my words.

Nan shakes her head decidedly. "Not if you were out to murder them all! The entire royal family!"

She smiles happily and I'm not sure anyone should rightfully be so cheerful when talking about murder. Especially not when we're technically discussing regicide.

"Continue talking like that and you'll not only scupper all my non-existent plans of murder, you'll also have my security clearance revoked, including the part that lets me bring guests," I remark drily. "If that happens, it spells the instant cancellation of your palace tour."

"Ken would get us in," counters Joy blithely, sounding absolutely convinced of the truth of her words.

(And with good reason, too. He totally _would_ get them in.)

"Probably," I concede. "And speaking of Ken…" I point to the other end of the quadrangle, where Ken is indeed waiting by the thing I learned to call a _porte-cochère_. When he sees us looking at him, he raises a hand in greeting.

Thankfully, that draws my sister's attention away from their half-baked plans of murder or high treason or high treasonous murder. Instead, both Di and Joy wave back at Ken, while Nan takes in the sight of the buildings enclosing the quadrangle.

"This is _some_ courtyard," she point out to no-one in particular, sounding impressed.

"It used to be open on one side," I explain, trying to remember what Owen told me about the building of the palace. "The East Wing wasn't built until… sometime in the 1800s." At least I _think_ it was sometime in the 1800s.

"Built between 1847 and 1850, then remodelled in 1913," chimes in Ken who has crossed the quadrangle to meet us halfway. He smiles and nods at my sisters in turn, before placing an arm around my waist and kissing me briefly.

(We were very good about not making a peep last night, but this morning, when my jet-lagged sisters were still fast asleep, we tested my theory about the shower comfortably fitting two people. Turns out that it totally does.)

"Not that old then," comments Di, raising an eyebrow.

Ken shakes his head. "Certainly not when compared to Windsor. There was an older house on this site, but Nash didn't start working on the current palace until 1825."

Someone did his homework, I see. There's no way Ken just knows these facts without having looked them up. I bet he spent the time we were on Portobello Road Market doing some research. (It's kind of sweet.)

"It's smaller than Windsor Castle, too," I supply. "Not even 800 rooms, when Windsor has more than 1000!"

"Not even 800 rooms? _How_ do you survive?" Joy asks Ken, winking to show she's joking.

"Just about," replies Ken, laughing, and extends an arm towards the palace entrance. "Shall we?"

"We shall," confirms Nan.

And thus, we cross the quadrangle to step inside the _porte-cochère_.

"Imaginatively, we call this the Grand Entrance," explains Ken, before directing us to climb the steps to our left. "And this is the Grand Hall, which connects to the Marble Hall. This part of the palace still shows a lot of Nash's design."

As we cross through the Grand Hall toward the corridor-like Marble Hall, Di extends a hand and knocks on one of the columns. "These are marble, I presume?"

"Made from a single block of marble each," I answer in Ken's stead.

Nan quickly turns to look at me. "How do _you_ know this?"

"Because in another life my father would have become a tour guide and right now, Rilla is his favourite victim. He drags her through every house and castle we have and piles her with a lot of useless information." As he says it, Ken grins down at me.

"Which is also how I know that the marble came from Tuscany," I add haughtily, making a point not to look at him.

"Useless information indeed," mutters Di, so I make a point not to look at her either.

Instead, I follow Joy to where she's peering through an open set of double doors. "The Bow Room," I explain. "The world's fanciest waiting room."

She raises both eyebrows. "Waiting room?"

Ken comes up behind me and wraps an arm around my waist. "It adjoins the 1844 room, where diplomats are usually received. They wait here beforehand."

"Why 1844?" Nan wants to know.

"It's when Tsar Nicholas I came to visit," replies Ken with a shrug. "The Bow Room used to be the 1853 Room and we also have an 1855 Room, named for the visit of Napoleon III"

"Napoleon?" repeats Di, sounding sceptical, and makes a motion as if to push one hand inside her jacket.

"Napoleon _III_ ," clarifies Ken. "The nephew. He came to live in England after the French chased him away."

"Perils of being a monarch," I remark blithely. "At least they didn't hack of his head."

Ken nods gravely. "That was fortunate for him."

"I'd say," agrees Joy.

" _Off with their heads!_ " quotes Nan, grinning widely. (Trust her to find a way to bring Alice into this.)

"Better not," replies Ken, laughing.

He signals for me to lead the way and we cross back through the Marble Hall and Grand Hall, to the aptly named Grand Staircase. While we ascend one of the two mirroring stairs, Di whistles softly and indicates the paintings lining the walls. "Are those portraits life-sized?"

"I think so," confirms Ken. "They were Queen Victoria's idea. She hung up quite a few of her dead relatives all around the palace."

"Morbid," comments Joy drily.

"And speaking of which," continues Ken, as we reach the landing and move into the Guard Chamber. "These are Queen Vic and her most beloved Albert." He points at two of the marble statues crowding the small room.

Nan leans forward to peer closely at Marble Albert. "Why is he dressed as a Roman soldier?"

Ken frowns. "I… I don't know that. Perhaps he just fancied it?"

"As good an explanation as any," decides Nan and shrugs.

We cross through the Green Drawing Room (the walls of which are hung with tapestries in what is really an unbecoming khaki) and in passing, I point out a frightfully ugly porcelain… _thing_. "This one belonged to Madame de Pompadour."

"I thought she had better taste than that," comments Nan and shakes her head mournfully.

Ahead of us, Ken throws open yet another set of double doors. "The Throne Room," he announces.

Nan stops to look at the two plushy chairs standing beneath a red canopy, the ciphers _O R_ and _L_ stitched into the back. "Does anyone else think thrones should be more… well, _more_?"

"More?" asks Ken, looking at her quizzically.

My sister wrinkles her nose. "Just _more_. I mean, these are just… chairs."

"You _would_ think they'd be bigger," agrees Joy. "And more golden."

"Or made of swords," deadpans Di.

" _Preferably_ made of swords," I decide.

"I shall keep it in mind," remarks Ken, chuckling to himself.

Pointing to the other thrones (chairs) lining the blood red walls, he adds, "These belonged to past monarchs. We have Victoria's throne beneath the window and my Grandmother Alexandra's throne right opposite. No-one has sat on them since their respective owner died."

"Makes you want to sit down just for the sake of it, right?" Di murmurs to Nan, who looks fairly horrified at the idea.

"Behave, you two," chides Joy mildly. Di waits until she has turned away and pulls a face at her back.

Catching my eye, Ken grins at me, before inviting my sisters to move into the next room, which is long and rectangular and lined with paintings.

"The Picture Gallery," he tells them. "It holds just a small part of the royal collection, but among others, it displays paintings by Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer and Canaletto."

(He _so_ looked that up beforehand!)

"And when the palace is opened in the summer, the carpet gets pushed in one direction by the many people, making it go all wonky," I supply my bit of useless information. "So the next year, it is turned around and by the end of that, it's normal again."

Joy nods appraisingly. "Nifty."

Nan has stopped in front of a painting and considers it thoughtfully. "That looks like Venice."

"It is, I think," confirms Ken. "Beautiful city, Venice."

"I've never been," I remark pointedly and inspect my nails.

Ken laughs and pulls me closer to kiss the top of my head. "I'll take you."

I beam up at him. "I'll hold you to that!"

Joy inclines her head. "It's lovely, but also pretty crowded these days."

"Somehow, I don't think crowds of tourists are much of a problem for him," counters Di and points her thumb at Ken, who smiles wryly.

(She's not wrong, is she? They'd _totally_ clear St. Mark's Cathedral for his visit.)

Underneath the watchful eyes of dozens depressing and depressed-looking figures that were alive in Holland sometime during the 1600s, we move through the Picture Gallery, the adjoining small Silk Tapestry Rooms and into the East Gallery. (Those royals and their uncreative naming policy!).

"This part of the palace was built by Victoria," explains Ken. "Before that, it was the site of the libraries of George III."

"They tore down libraries to build… yet another long, fancy room?" asks Nan, looking horrified. Di wrinkles her forehead in disdain and Joy shakes her head mournfully.

"The books – over 65.000 of them – were donated to the nation and now form a core part of the British Library," Ken assures them, looking amused. "They call it the King's Library, not to be confused with Old Royal Library as donated by George II."

Di eyes Ken with marked suspicion. "So… various kings gave away books so they can be read by the people?"

"Very democratic of them, don't you think?" I ask brightly and Di nods, though looking somewhat reluctant. I don't think this information fits with her general idea of monarchs.

As we walk through the East Gallery, Ken leans down and murmurs in my ear, "I think George IV mostly donated his father's books to save money and make space."

"Shush," I whisper back. "No need to point it out to them."

He laughs softly, but, as instructed, keeps his speculation to himself. Instead, he opens a set of doors to our left and announces, "The Ball Supper Room."

"The Ball Room?" asks Joy, looking confused.

"The Ball _Supper_ Room," corrects Ken. "They used to serve refreshments in here when there were balls going on next door. Though these days, we usually use the Ball Room for dinner and have the dancing in here."

"It's also used for the yearly summer exhibitions," I add. "They're preparing one called _Royal Childhoods_ for this year. Leslie showed me some of the plans."

"My mother enjoys working with the curators to put on the exhibitions," Ken explains to my sisters. "For the next one, they requisitioned the coronet I wore to my parents' coronation. Teddy gave his old school uniform and Persis lent a very well-worn purple cuddly horse by name of Winnie."

"A purple cuddly horse?" repeats Nan, smiling.

"It used to be a unicorn." Ken shrugs. "Persis ripped off the horn, declaring that unicorns were stupid."

Joy sighs. "I wish someone would do that to Izzie's Elsa doll. If I have to hear _Let It Go_ one more time…"

"It's catchy!" I protest, doing little to hide my grin.

My oldest sister narrows her eyes at me. "I blame you. Just for the record."

I meet her glare with my most innocent expression and start to hum the first notes of the already famous Disney song. Immediately, Joy jumps forward to press both hands over my mouth. Ken and the twins stand by, laughing, even as I start wildly hitting at whatever part of Joy I can reach. She doesn't budge.

"No more!" she demands, though she's barely hiding a grin. " _Not_ that song!"

Only when I raise my arms in surrender, does she take her hands back. "Not. That. Song!" she warns, for good measure.

"Alright," I reply peacefully. "Not that song."

Part of me considers breaking out into _Do You Want to Build a Snowman?_ , but I'm unsure whether I'd survive that, so I don't. This, despite how hypocritical it is, given that my sisters subjected the world to a loud rendition of the Portobello Road song this morning, which was _so_ embarassing! But I know they wouldn't see it that way, so I just smile extra sweetly at Joy, while allowing Ken to take my hand and pull me onwards. My sisters follow on our heels as we enter what is the proper Ball Room.

"This is… big," comments Nan, looking around at the ornate white-and-gold room.

"My flat would fit in here at least four times," estimates Di. Turning to Ken, she asks, "How big is it?"

"Around 6500 square feet," I answer for him. "It fits 160 people for dinner. And that over there is a real organ."

Di frowns and looks at Ken. "Why is there an organ?"

"Why not?" he replies and shrugs. "It came from the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. They had it, so they put it here."

"As good an explanation as any," mutters Joy and yes, it probably is.

It takes us a moment to cross the entire Ball Room (it really _is_ big). In the adjoining West Gallery, Ken opens a set of French doors leading out to a small balcony. In front of us stretches a meadow, lined by trees and with a small lake in the middle. Only the tips of the houses in the distance remind us that we're still in the middle of London.

"Let me guess," pipes up Nan. "This is the park?"

"We call it the garden, but… I suppose it qualifies as a park," admits Ken.

"How big?" Joy wants to know, looking down at the garden. (Park. Whatever.)

"Around sixteen hectares," answers Ken. "It's the largest private garden in London."

Di raises an eyebrow. "You don't _say_?"

But Ken just laughs good-naturedly. "There are richer people in this city – and not a few of them – but we do still have the biggest garden."

(We're talking about size rather a lot today, aren't we?)

There's not a lot happening in the empty garden (park) and there's a chilly wind going, so we return inside pretty quickly. Back in the West Gallery, we walk onwards to what is the State Dining Room.

"The Hanoverians," comments Ken as we pass a row of life-sized paintings of fancily-dressed men and women.

"Minus the wife of George IV," I add. "They were married for over 25 years, but he had her exiled for most of them. He even barred her from his coronation."

"Not a successful marriage, then" concludes Joy drily.

Ken shakes his head, grinning. "It's hard to say who was more repulsed by the other, but old George is on the record as saying they only, well, _lay together_ three times. How they managed to have a daughter at all is a continuous mystery."

 _Lay together_? Bless him. (Sometimes, he really does talk like someone out of Nan's romance novels.)

The next room is the Blue Drawing Room, though the tapestry _is_ rather too faded to still be called 'blue'. Time for an update, if you ask me!

"You'll like this," Ken tells Nan and points up at the plaster sculptures over the door. "We have Shakespeare, Milton and Spenser up there."

" _Really_?" Nan looks up, her expression eager.

Behind her, Di mutters something about the appropriation of the arts, though really, where does she think most poets would have ended up without a monarch to champion them?

As Nan continues to study the plaster poets up on the wall, Ken directs Joy and Di's attention to a pair of oversized portraits hanging on both sides of the fireplace. "My great-great-grandparents, King Victor and Queen Mary. She did a lot to build up the royal collection, reacquiring pieces that had left the family under previous generations." Looking at Di, he smiles and continues, "And before you accuse us of enriching ourselves, the royal collection isn't the monarch's private property, it's held in trust for the people."

Di rolls her eyes at him, but I can see that she, too, is hiding a smile.

Pulling Nan away from her poets, we move into the next room. It is round and vaulted and, yes, pretty impressive.

"The Music Room", I tell my sisters.

"Though it's not often used as such anymore," adds Ken.

"Pretty," remarks Joy and Nan nods approvingly.

I point to a clock sitting on a mantelpiece. "There are 350 clocks in the palace. And they have two people employed just to wind them up."

"Just for the clocks?" asks Di, incredulous.

"They're _old_ clocks." Ken sounds a little defensive. "They need attention. Some of them are rather temperamental, or so I've been told. I wouldn't dare touch them."

"Probably for the best," I tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head, but he's laughing as he pulls me towards him and ruffles my hair. I resist the impulse to pat it back down.

Instead, I grab his hand and pull him forwards, waving for my sisters to follow us. The next room is the White Drawing Room, aptly kitted out in white and gold, with ornaments and swirls and massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

"Do you see that portrait?" I ask. (Rather rhetorically, because the portrait of Queen Alexandra – wife of Edward VII, not Ken's grandmother – rather dominates the opposite wall.) "The cabinet and mirror to her left are actually a secret door. It opens to –"

I break off as the cabinet and mirror do, indeed, start to move.

"What…?" mutters Joy on my right.

The secret door swings open fully, revealing none other than the King and Queen. Behind me, I can hear Nan gasp.

As my sisters stare, I turn around to glare at Ken. "You couldn't have warned us?" I hiss.

He raises both hands in defence. "I didn't know," he murmurs back. "They were supposed to be in Windsor today. There must have been a change of plans."

"Do you think…?" I whisper, looking from him to his approaching parents and back again.

"Knowing my father?" Ken replies quietly. "Entirely probable."

Yeah. I thought so. It _would_ be like Owen to return to London upon learning that my sisters are here today. He has been making noises about wanting to get to know more members of my family and anyway, he actually seems to enjoy meeting people. (Probably a plus, given his job description.)

"Rilla?" comes Joy's soft voice. "What do we do?"

"Just be natural," I advise quickly. "They're nice. No need to be intimidated."

"Easy for you to say," comments Di and I refrain from pointing out that I, too, once met Owen and Leslie for the first time. (And in Leslie's case, under much odder circumstances.)

By now, Owen has reached us, curtailing any more conversation. Ken steps forward and since he's obviously decided to take over introductions, I slip past him and walk over to Leslie, who is hanging back a little.

"Hello Rilla." Leaning forward, she lightly puts a hand on my arm and kisses me on each cheek. (It's a fairly common way of greeting among posh British people, as I've learned.)

"I must apologise for Owen," Leslie continues quietly, casting a look over my shoulder. "When Kenneth mentioned your sisters would be here today for a tour and dinner, Owen decided we needed to come as well. I told him it's not polite to come unannounced, but he thought it would be an amusing surprise."

I can imagine. Remembering my own first meeting with him and how he popped up to meet my parents without any warning, there's little doubt that Owen delights in springing his presence upon unsuspecting people.

"It's fine," I assure Leslie. Turning around, I see Owen shaking the hand of a befuddled-looking Nan. Joy, standing next to her, is shaking her head slightly, as if trying to clear it. Di just blinks.

"I mean, I'm sure it _will_ be fine," I correct myself, smiling wryly. "They just need a moment."

Leslie returns my smile, but hers is a little wistful. "Yes, that often happens when we're introduced to someone new."

I think I know what she means. It must be pretty annoying to have everyone you meet be thunderstruck just because of your position.

"At least there's no-one spilling red wine all over themselves," I remark brightly, in an attempt to cheer her up.

It seems to work, too, because Leslie starts laughing softly. "I still remember when Ken called me the morning after that gala in New York and wouldn't shut up about the woman who saved him from embarrassing himself," she tells me, sounding amused. "How she was clever, funny, brave and very, very pretty. He even forgot to complain about being ill."

I stare at her in amazement. "He said that?"

(Behind me, I can hear my sisters' laughter and know that Owen is working his magic again.)

"He did," confirms Leslie, smiling. "I told him if he wanted to see her again, he'd better make sure to get the replacement dress and go deliver it in person. Evidently, he took my advice."

That was _her_ idea?

I try to blink away my confusion. Leslie, I notice, is looking at me and if I didn't know any better, I'd say her expression was one of fondness.

"He didn't tell much more about you after that, but even then, I had a feeling I'd meet you one day," she states after a moment.

She _did_?

Taking a deep breath, I nod slowly. "And you were right. I mean…" I wave a hand around haphazardly at our surroundings. "Look at us now. Him, me… _this_."

(I wonder where we'll go from here.)

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Vincent' (written_ _by Don McLean, released by him in 1972_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Are you implying George is getting_ fat _? He resents that! He resents that a lot. At worst, he's... cuddly. Yes, he's soft and cuddly. He is_ not _fat! ;)  
Yes, Rilla is doing a lot of growing up right now. In fact, if they aren't careful, there's danger of her growing past Ken at some point, which would certainly turn their relationship all topsy-turvy. (For future use: Ken's full name is Kenneth Frank Edward Alexander. Very effective for scolding!)  
Rilla needing a better relationship to her siblings in canon (or, really, any relationship to speak of) is a hill I will die on, so it's important for me to show that while she lives her own life, she's still close to her siblings in this story. (Though having grown up with an older sister, I can tell you it's not all it's cracked up to be either!) Canon also leaves her pretty bereft of real friends, so there's double the need to give her friends in this. After how lonely she was for the past few months, she is, as you said, due a good deal of social contact and support. She's getting it now, from family and friends, from Ken's family and Ken himself. As you said, he's _really _trying to do better here and not bungling it, so we shall pat him on the back for that. And I love your explanation of how he's feeling about Rilla right now. That could very well be part of it!  
As you see, we were indeed talking Buckingham Palace-dinner, not just plain dinner-dinner. Got to make the most out of the opportunities you're given, after all._

 _To AnneShirley:  
This corona thing is really bringing life to a halt, isn't it? We're still allowed on the streets (as of now) and allowed to go to work, but everything else has been closed. Though we're still little optimists about it and have only closed schools until mid-April so far. We may well have to close them for longer, but I don't think we can face the though of months-long closures yet. We're taking it step by step, because baby steps doesn't scare us as much. (Tell your classmates that _I Want It All _is definitely superior to_ Don't Stop Me Now _. And while_ North Country Blues _is a gorgeous song, it doesn't have_ quite _the vibe I was going for here ;).)  
Seven original plots in the world? Sometimes, I'm surprised to think there are that many. I mean, there are still great tales and stories out there, but if you look at what most cinemas are playing nowadays... but I digress. Writing chapters with Rilla's friends and family is always fun for me (with the exception of Nan's Oxford visit, as you said), so I'm glad they're also fun to read! Dialogue comes relatively easy to me when writing, especially when it's light and a bit frothy, so those chapters also tend to write themselves. I don't curse them nearly as often as some of the other ;).  
As for Big Brother... it's a TV show that has narcissistic and exhibitionistic people being put in a house together and having their entire move filmed for TV. It's unwatchable, as far as I am concerned, but it's right up Chad's alley. And the first/second floor jibe was because the British call the street-level floor 'ground floor', while in North America it's 'first floor'. Thus, what is the first floor in the UK is the second floor in North America. The sisters were teasing Rilla about using British over Canadian terminology.  
I'm glad you think Ken a little more open and more relaxed in this chapter, because I meant for him to. He's had a lot of time to think, up there in the Scottish wilderness, and that thinking included not only Rilla, but also his relationship to his parents, so yes, we'll definitely see a slow change there. And his training _is _almost over, so yay for that!  
_


	67. Into this house we're born

_London, England  
June 2014_

 **Into this house we're born**

"… and I don't know what to _do_!" wails Sophie.

I switch the phone from one ear to the other and take a deep breath.

Sophie, in addition to having great taste in shoes, is one of my nicest colleagues. She's also certainly the most creative one (I've seen her create the most beautiful decorations out of a wad of Kleenex, some pipe cleaners and body glitter), but planning isn't her greatest talent and she's utterly lost in a crisis.

"Sophie? Soph. First of all, breathe," I instruct. "This is not the end of the world. We'll figure this out. But to do that, you must keep breathing, because you won't accomplish anything if you drop dead from asphyxiation."

On the other end of the phone, I can hear Sophie try to control her breathing.

"Okay," she says after a moment. "I am breathing." She does, indeed, sound like she's not hyperventilating anymore.

"Great. Now tell me what's the matter. But _slowly_." I make a point to stress the last word.

"The smoked salmon has gone bad, the harpist went into labour early and the goat ate the bride's flowers!" By the end of her list, Sophie sounds like she's close to hyperventilating again.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to come up with solutions. After a few seconds, I raise my head again. "Okay, here's what you'll do. First, you sent someone to the nearest Waitrose and have them buy all their smoked salmon. How about that new intern? Debbie, wasn't it? Send Debbie."

"But won't the guests notice it's supermarket-bought salmon?" asks Sophie and even without seeing her, I know she's wide-eyed at the idea.

" _I_ wouldn't notice," I reply. "Would _you_?"

"Nu-huh," answers Sophie after a moment of pause.

"Great." I nod at the empty room. "Next, you call Asafa and ask him to play tonight. Offer him double the usual wage, if necessary."

Sophie makes a squeaking sound. "But the bride wanted a harpist for her wedding dance!" she protests.

I brush the argument aside. "That's because the bride has never tried dancing to a harp. Asafa is an amazing pianist and it'll be much easier to dance to his piano than to whatever that heavily-pregnant harpist could have produced."

"Hmm… you might be right," Sophie agrees slowly.

"Sometimes, I am," I remark, smiling. "I know I'm right this time. Just remember to have someone pick up Asafa. He has no car, remember? Send Debbie when she's back with the salmon."

Poor Debbie will be driving around quite a bit today, it seems.

"Got that." I can hear that Sophie is growing calmer, the longer I speak.

"Good. And as for the flowers…" I trail off.

To be honest, I'm half-tempted to have Sophie tell the bride that to have her flowers eaten is a hazard of having a goat as a ring bearer, but that would be unprofessional and Pamela is too good a boss for her employees to be acting unprofessionally. (In fact, Pamela is a pretty great boss. She's much more accommodating about me dating a prince than she has to be, giving me whatever day off I need. Whenever I try to apologise, she simply points out that Steve told her how it is, and that's that.)

I shall be professional, then.

"As for the flowers," I repeat, "just pick her some new ones. I bet you'll do a better job of putting together a bouquet than the florist did."

"Will they let me?" asks Sophie timidly. (The 'they' in this case being the owners of the country house where today's wedding is taking place.)

"Their gardens are so big, I highly doubt they'll miss some tulips or whatever," I reply and shrug. "And we'll pay for them, of course.

"Of course," parrots Sophie.

She is, I notice, breathing normally again. I take this as a good sign.

"So, salmon from Waitrose, Asaf to play the piano and freshly-picked flowers," I summarise. "Can you do that?"

"I can," confirms Sophie, her voice reassuringly strong.

"Great. And if anything else happens, give me a call, alright?" I ask.

There's a moment of hesitation, before Sophie replies, "But won't I disturb anything?"

"No, it's fine," I assure her. "I might not be there with you in person, but we're doing this together."

Truth is, I _should_ be there. It's my job as well as Sophie's and normally, I'd be with her at the country house, overseeing the wedding and making sure everything goes according to plan (or, if not, improvising a new plan). It's just that today, I have something even more important planned.

Because today is Trooping the Colour.

Ending the call with Sophie, I step closer to the window and peer outside. The entire Mall is flagged with Union Jacks and there are crowds of people lining the street. In the distance, I can see the first carriage coming up from Horse Guards Parade. Drawn by a pair of grey horses, I know it to be Leslie and Persis's. Behind them are two carriages with brown horses, one holding Aunt Kimberly, Chris, Katie and Ashley, the other occupied by Aunt Mary, Uncle Bob and Great-Aunt Tanya. (Aunt Mary's grown up sons don't ride in the procession, but I can hear them talking loudly in the room next door, waiting for the balcony appearance.)

My phone beeps and I look down, expecting it to be Sophie again, with some new disaster. (Perhaps the best man spit into the soup?) Instead, it's Seraphina's name popping up on the screen. Quickly scrolling through the message, I am dismayed to find that the man she's been seeing turned out to be just as much of a cad as Nia predicted. (She has a radar for cads, Nia has.)

I send a supportive response, only to receive a frustrated text back within seconds. Knowing that the whole ceremony outside will go on for a while, I settle back into a (surprisingly uncomfortable) chair, and type out a long message telling Seraphina that she's fabulous and that he didn't deserve her anyhow. It leads us right into an exchange that has me being uplifting and soothing and her wailing at men in general and Travis specifically.

After some minutes of texting, I hear more commotion in the Centre Room next door and know that most of the family has returned, ready to walk out on the balcony. Briefly turning back to the window, I see a group of especially fancy riders coming up the Mall, surrounded by hundreds of military troops and accompanied by marching bands playing upbeat military music. The riders are too small to recognise, but I know them to be Owen followed by the three Royal Dukes – Ken, Teddy and Uncle Al. (Or, as they are in this, the Colonels of the Welsh Guards, the Scots Guards and the Irish Guards. I did my homework!)

The itinerary I was given by Melissa said that after this, there's another march past outside the palace gates, followed by the King and the Dukes joining the rest of the family on the balcony to watch the flypast and accept the adulation of the masses. There's easily another half an hour scheduled for this, so I try to find a more comfortable spot in the armchair and type out another message for Seraphina. With this done, I quickly confirm a lunch date with some colleagues on Wednesday, assure Mum that I'll call her later today and weigh in on the discussion between Dev and Lucy about which movie the three of us want to go see next weekend.

(Surprisingly, there's not a peep from Sophie. Looks like things are working out at that wedding.)

Above me, there's an absolutely deafening sound as the military aircrafts thunder overhead. It even briefly drowns out the cheering of the people outside. A look out of the window tells me they now fill the space immediately in front of the palace, having swarmed around Queen Victoria, who's steadfastly standing guard in their middle.

It's… quite a sight.

Standing behind the curtain, I watch the people down on the street as they wave and point at the royal family standing on the balcony to my left. I know they're out there, but a big pillar prevents me from seeing them, so it's only when the waving and cheering slowly dies down that I realise that the family must have gone back inside.

Moments later, the door opens and Ken enters.

"Hello you," he greets me, smiling.

He's still wearing what I call his Disney Prince Uniform, but unfortunately without the ridiculous tall fur hat.

"You took off the hat!" I accuse.

"It's heavy and it's itchy," he defends himself. "But if you insist, I'll put it back on later, just for you."

"Can I take pictures?" I ask, walking up to him and slipping my arms around his neck.

He bends down to give me a quick kiss. "Depends. Will you sell them to the papers?"

"I have better pictures to sell to the papers," I remind him, before ducking away, laughing.

"Minx," he replies good-naturedly.

I grin naughtily. Ken shakes his head at me, but he's smiling as he does it.

Then, pointing behind himself, he asks, "Are you ready to meet them?"

If his intention was to wipe the grin off my face, he succeeds immediately. Instead, I nervously wring my hand together, all the cheer gone.

"As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," I answer, trying to squelch the fluttering feeling in my chest.

Ken extends his arms and I step into them again. "It'll be fine. They're nice people, on the whole, and I'll be there with you every step. You don't need to be nervous," he soothes me. "But if you are, we can always do this some other time."

His embrace calms me and gives me enough confidence to shake my head and decline his offer. "No, we'll do this. It's what I'm here for, after all."

Since Trooping the Colour marks one of the rare occasions when the entire family gathers together, it was deemed a good opportunity for me to meet them. And meet them I will, no matter how nervous the prospect makes me feel. (Maybe there's something to be said for the surprise meetings as orchestrated by Owen.)

"That's my girl!" Kissing my temple, Ken turns us around towards the door, one of my hands securely wrapped in his.

In the adjoining Centre Room, with its Chinese design and flower-shaped chandelier, the entire royal family has gathered, as descended from the late Queen Alexandra.

Befitting their status, my gaze falls on Owen and Leslie first. I've had breakfast with them and their children this morning, meaning there's no need for a formal greeting, so Owen just nods encouragingly and Leslie gives me a smile. Next to them, Persis and Teddy both wave at me and I raise my hand as well, before letting my eyes drift to where Katie and Chris are standing, him as extravagantly and her as understatedly dressed as always.

The familiar faces make me feel a little calmer, so when Ken steers me towards a couple to our right, I square my shoulders and raise my chin. I've got this.

"Rilla, these are my Uncle Albert and Aunt Kimberly, The Duke and Duchess of Hereford," Ken introduces the couple. "Al, Kim, please meet Rilla Blythe."

The man is obviously nearing his sixties. He's rather portly and lacking a chin, but doesn't look all that scary. The woman is a good twenty years younger, has an enviable figure and impeccably styled hair, but seems rather fidgety, as if she's not quite able to relax here. (If I have my dates right, she married into the family eleven years ago. That she's still uneasy doesn't bode too well, to be honest.)

"Hello," I greet politely and bob into a small curtsey. "It's an honour to meet you."

"Marvellous, marvellous," drones Uncle Al and pats my shoulder. "Just marvellous."

Well… I hope so?

Aunt Kimberly extends a hand towards me. "I'm Kim. I love your outfit."

Automatically, I shake her hand, but my attention is drawn down towards my clothes, just to check whether she sees something in them I don't. Because when I dressed this morning, my main concern was to look respectable and inoffensive. I'm wearing a simple white blouse and a blue-and-yellow tartan skirt and the combination screams 'school uniform' much more than 'fashion'.

Looking back up, I meet Kimberly's eyes and realise that she's simply trying to say something nice.

"Thank you," I reply, trying to think of something to compliment in return. "Your… your shoes are very cute."

She is wearing simple grey court shoes. They are serviceable but also rather dull – just like my clothes.

Kimberly inclines her head. "Thank you. That is very nice of you to say."

"Marvellous, marvellous," agrees Uncle Al and pats his wife's shoulder.

Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Ken. He keeps a straight face, but I feel him squeeze my hand encouragingly.

Unfortunately, we seem to have exhausted our topics of conversation and for a moment, silence settles. (As I look around frantically for something to talk about, I spot a girl of about ten darting by behind Uncle Al and Aunt Kimberly. I take her to be their daughter, the unfortunately-named Princess Ashley.) In the end, I think we're all a little relieved when Uncle Al gets bumped to the side by three identically-looking men in their late twenties to early thirties.

"You're Rilla!" declares one of them, while Uncle Al and Aunt Kimberly melt into the background.

"You _exist_!" exclaims the second man.

"For real!" adds the last one.

Um…

"I do?" It comes out as more of a question.

Next to me, Ken rolls his eyes. "Yes, she exists," he informs the three men with a long-suffering expression. To me, he explains, "These three morons are my Oldwick cousins, the sons of Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob."

"Thomas Oldwick, Viscount Launceston," the first man announces, grabbing my hand and pumping it up and down.

Within seconds, his brother has elbowed him aside. "The Honourable Richard Oldwick," he introduces himself. "No fancy Viscount title needed."

"Henry," chimes in the last one and snatches my hand from his brother. "Also Oldwick, also Honourable, also no Viscount."

Right.

"Or you can just call them Tom, Dick and Harry," Ken informs me, shaking his head at his cousins.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait.

They are not _seriously_ called Tom, Dick and Harry, are they? _Are_ they?

I open my mouth, then shut it again.

Thomas, Richard and Henry.

Tom, Dick and Harry.

This is for real, right?

"We never could figure out whether it was intentional," Ken tells me conspiratorially, obviously having read my thoughts. "Aunt Mary refuses to answer questions on the matter."

The three Oldwicks nod simultaneously.

"Old Mumsy is not very forthcoming with information," announces Tom.

"Not at all," agrees Dick.

"Very tight-lipped," adds Harry.

I stare at them. Then I stare some more.

Ken, meanwhile, cranes his neck to look at something behind his cousins. "Your mother is also coming here," he warns them. "If you want to, now would be the time to disappear."

And disappear they do, with a wave and a bow and a wide grin each. As they shuffle to the side, they reveal a woman walking toward me, followed by a man whose similarity to the Oldwick brothers is so striking that he can only be their father. Both Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary look to be in their sixties and neither of them looks like much fun.

Next to me, I feel Ken stand up straighter.

"Aunt Mary, Uncle Bob, may I present Rilla Blythe?" he asks. Leaning closer to me, he introduces, "My aunt and uncle, The Earl and Countess of Eltham."

I bob into my curtsey again, making sure to go deeper and keep it for longer this time. Aunt Mary's insistence on formality has been suitably impressed on me, which is also why I make a point to greet her first (because precedence). "Your Royal Highness, Your Lordship."

Uncle Bob mumbles something incomprehensible. Aunt Mary considers me through slightly narrowed eyes.

"So, you're Kenneth's American girlfriend," she remarks. Her voice is impossibly posh.

"Rilla is from Canada, Aunt Mary," Ken corrects immediately.

A look of annoyance ripples over Aunt Mary's face. When she turns her gaze back to me, it's clear that she considers it my fault for daring to not be American.

"Are you quite certain?" she asks and though she's looking at me, the question is directed at Ken.

"Very sure," he answers. His hand squeezes mine tighter.

(Uncle Bob, meanwhile, looks around the room with a mildly surprised expression on his face, like he's not even part of this conversation.)

Aunt Mary tuts – whether at Ken or me or both of us, I don't know. "Between Albert and you, one cannot be expected to keep track of all the foreigners you bring here," she informs Ken, clearly disdainful.

 _All_ the foreigners?

 _Excuse me_?

"Aunt Mary…" begins Ken and there's a warning note in his tone that is lost on neither Aunt Mary nor me.

Her eyes immediately turn to slits.

Deciding quickly, I tug at Ken's hand, willing him to be quiet. I appreciate him wanting to defend me, but I know without a doubt that Aunt Mary would just end up blaming me. Having him argue with his aunt is hardly the way I want to be introduced to the family.

"Kimberly and I are both from North America," I therefore chime in, before Ken can say anything else. "Maybe that makes it a little easier?"

Aunt Mary stares at me, clearly aghast that I dare to address her directly. A long, loaded moment passes (during which I squeeze Ken's hand painfully tight to keep him quiet), before she curtly nods her head. "Maybe."

I take a deep breath. Beside me, I feel Ken growing even tenser, but I don't let go of my grip on his hand. I don't want an argument. And besides, didn't I decide that I've got this?

"It's an honour to meet you, Your Royal Highness," I tell Aunt Mary, procuring my politest smile for her. With a nod at the absent-minded Uncle Bob, I add, "Your Lordship."

Uncle Bob, thus addressed, starts out of his reverie. Looking at me with an expression of puzzlement, he again mumbles something inaudible, before letting his gaze drift sideways again.

Aunt Mary, on the other hand, considers me with very alert eyes. "I suppose it was not to be avoided," she finally declares.

I take a calming breath. (Beside me, I think I can hear Ken gnash his teeth.)

"Kenneth." Aunt Mary nods curtly. "Miss Blythe."

She doesn't wait for a reply, instead turning on her sensible court heel and striding to the other side of the room, her somewhat befuddled-looking husband in tow.

For a moment, both Ken and I stare after her, before he raises our still tightly clenched hands and kisses my knuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He looks almost contrite.

"It's okay," I assure him (and, to be honest, myself). "You warned me that she might be this way. It's nothing personal, right?"

"She is… very grand." Ken is obviously choosing his words carefully. "It's no excuse for being this rude though."

"It isn't," I agree. "But there's no changing some people."

He frowns. "There might be. I'm certainly going to have a word with her after this. I know you didn't want a scene and I respect that, but just because Al allows her to treat Kim this way doesn't mean she can do the same to you."

"That's sweet of you," I tell him, giving him a smile. I _didn't_ want a scene, but that I also wouldn't mind not having a repetition of that situation just there. If Ken talking to Aunt Mary makes our next meeting more civil, I'm all for it.

"It's the least I can do," he assures me. "I want you to feel welcome and Aunt Mary didn't help that."

"No," I acknowledge. "I hope you can talk her around. And while you're at it, you might also explain to her the difference between Canada and the US." This in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"We know the difference, dear," chimes in another voice from behind us.

Startled, I turn around and find myself confronted with an ancient little woman sitting on a sofa. She watches me with intelligent, slightly amused eyes and I wonder how much she heard.

Ken slips an arm around my waist. "Great-Aunt Tanya," he tells me, nodding at the little woman on the sofa.

"We know the difference," Great-Aunt Tanya emphasises. "After all, we own Canada. As for those Yankees…" She shakes her head mournfully.

Uh…

What does she mean, they _own_ Canada?

Daring a quick look at Ken, I see him suppress a smile. "I'm not sure that's how it works, Great-Aunt Tanya."

She clucks her tongue. "Canada is part of the Commonwealth and your father owns the Commonwealth. Thus, we own Canada," she reasons.

"Yeah, I'm not sure that's quite how it works either," replies Ken, now distinctly amused.

"Fiddlesticks!" Great-Aunt Tanya brushes his objection aside with a surprisingly decisive movement of her hand. "Are you telling me I'm wrong, young man?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Great-Aunt Tanya," Ken assures solemnly and leans down to kiss her cheek. (As he straightens again, he winks at me and I have to hide a smile as well.)

"There's a good boy," declares Great-Aunt Tanya. "Now, shoo. Let me talk to this young lady in private."

Ken hesitates, looking from me to his great-aunt and back again. No matter how assertive she is, I know he won't leave until I tell him to. He's learned his lessons about that, I think.

For a moment, I consider Great-Aunt Tanya. She looks… not exactly _harmless_ , but… there's something reassuring about her twinkling eyes and her almost impish smile. I might be wrong, but I think I can trust her. I find myself _wanting_ to trust her.

Turning to Ken, I make a shooing motion with both hands. "You heard your aunt. Give us some privacy."

Great-Aunt Tanya laughs delightedly. Ken gives me an expression that is outwardly exasperated, but beneath that, shows fondness and even something that might be admiration. "Great-aunt," he corrects, but then leans forward to give me a quick kiss and leaves as instructed (though, I can't help noticing, not very far).

Great-Aunt Tanya pats the sofa next to her. "Sit down, dear, sit down."

Once I've done as told, she looks at me closely, but unlike Aunt Mary's gaze, hers doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. I sit still until she settles back again, seemingly satisfied.

"You handled Mary well," she commends. "She is a bit grand, poor little Mary."

I can't help noticing that Ken used the same word to describe his aunt.

"Poor Albert is, too," continues Great-Aunt Tanya thoughtfully. "He isn't very bright, so we mustn't blame him. Kimberly puts up with a lot, bless her. Now, Mary is clever, but she's no beauty. That's why she settled for Robert, too. She was afraid of staying on the shelf. He was just the third son of a viscount before my sister gave him his shiny new earldom."

Um…

"Is that so?" I ask, unsure of what else to say.

"Quite, quite," answers Great-Aunt Tanya cheerfully. "Poor Mary was already twenty-six when she married."

 _Already_ twenty-six?

"I was twenty when I married my first husband," Great-Aunt Tanya tells me and it's clear that for a moment, she's lost in memories. "Such a strapping man he was, too. He died fighting the Nazis."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I reply quickly.

But Great-Aunt Tanya just waves my condolences aside. "It was a long time ago. I was married three more times after him. All four of my husbands were so rude as to die on me. I thought about taking a fifth one, but took pity on the poor chap."

At her words and her naughty grin, a surprised burst of laughter escapes me.

"That's more like it," declares Great-Aunt Tanya, satisfied. "Of course, I never had any children of my own. My sister Alice – that's Queen Alexandra to you – was a bit mad when she realised she'd have to marry herself to keep the line going. She thought about emulating Queen Bess and remaining unmarried, but she couldn't risk the throne passing to Uncle Francis. When my second marriage didn't produce off-spring either, she picked herself a handsome younger son for purposes of reproduction."

"That would be… Ken's grandfather?" I ask, trying to keep the family ties straight in my head. (I've never heard of Uncle Francis, I think. He'd be… Great-Great-Uncle Francis to Ken, right?)

"Theodore, yes," confirms Great-Aunt Tanya. "Bless his soul. Alice was very fond of him. I think she even grew to love him. She didn't want him to die so soon."

I… should have hoped so?

"Of course, when she was young, she carried a torch for his older brother, but Owen Whitworth never came back from the war, so she turned to Theodore instead," Great-Aunt Tanya tells me conversationally.

(So, that's where Owen's name comes from, isn't it? How… odd.)

I must admit to being rather surprised at this frankness which with the family history is laid out for me. It appears to show on my face, because Great-Aunt Tanya reaches out to pat my cheek reassuringly.

"Don't be shocked, dear," she tells me soothingly. "We're moving with the times, if slowly. Remember that Owen was allowed to marry the woman he loved, when two generations previously, my own parents were quite miserable with each other."

"Miserable?" I repeat. "How come?"

"They were ill-suited," explains Great-Aunt Tanya, raising her shoulders in a dainty shrug. "My mother was earnest and very innocent when she married. My father was what they call a playboy. In addition, my mother was homesick. There was that pesky war – the Great War – that prevented her from seeing her family. Of course, by the end of it, they were all dead."

All… _dead_?

I blink at this sudden turn of events.

"Did they… die in the war?" I ask carefully.

"Goodness, no!" Great-Aunt Tanya laughs at my cluelessness. "No, no. They were murdered by the Reds."

The Reds?

That's… the communists? Right?

"My mother never got over their deaths. I have no memories of her, but Alice sad she was always sad. She never felt at home in England and her husband was off parading around battlefields in fancy uniforms or careening with his mistress, so he was quite useless, as men are. I was just a toddler when my mother died. They say it was because of complications to do with the birth of my brother, but Alice maintained that she died of a broken heart. She never got over her family being murdered and losing her new-born son was the final blow." For the first time in our conversation, Great-Aunt Tanya looks a bit wistful.

I frown, trying to get her story straight. "Why were they murdered? Her family?"

"Oh, the Bolsheviks did it," answers Great-Aunt Tanya, rather matter-of-factly. "My grandfather was the last Russian tsar and they didn't much fancy keeping him alive.

The… _the last Russian tsar_?

Great-Aunt Tanya laughs at my expression. (To be fair, I'm betting it's utterly dumbstruck. I'm _feeling_ utterly dumbstruck, anyway.)

"Didn't Owen or Kenneth tell you that we're descended from the Romanovs?" asks Great-Aunt Tanya, tutting at their omission. "My mother was Grand Duchess Olga of Russia, eldest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II. When she and my father married in 1914, it was the last heyday of the European monarchies before the pesky war toppled half of them."

"Including your grandfather's," I remark slowly, trying to wrap my mind around this new information.

"Grandfather Nicholas's empire fell in 1917, yes," confirms Great-Aunt Tanya. "I was born before he abdicated though, and for a short while, I was the granddaughter of two emperors, who, together, ruled over 40 per cent of the earth and a third of the people in it."

That's… that's nearly too much to comprehend.

"As you can see," continues Great-Aunt Tanya, sounding pleased, "I'm by far the most royal person in this room and thus, the one most qualified to judge people, no matter what airs poor little Mary puts on."

She leans forward again too peer closer at me, before raising a finger and tapping my cheek once. "And you, my dear" she says decisively, "you'll fit in nicely."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Riders on the Storm' (written_ _by John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek and Jim Morrison, released by The Doors in 1971_ _)._

* * *

 **A/N:**  
 **My lovely beta reader, Alinyaalethia, told me last week that she has some exciting new creative projects planned, which unforunately mean she won't be able to proofread for me anymore. Instead of looking for a new beta reader, I've decided to wing it on my own, so from next chapter onwards, I will be the only person proofreading this story. I promise to do my best and take as much care as possible, but ask you to forgive any typos that slip by. If there's an expression that sounds wrong or odd to you, feel free to send me a PM and I'll look into it. Thanks for your understanding!**

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _I imagine his children are often pretty annoyed with Owen insisting on surprising people and then piling them with trivia about his homes ;). But as someone whose life is planned out so completely, these little surprises delight him a lot, plus he's still able to set people at ease, so the outcome is usually a good one. Ken has been through a lifetime of this, so he wasn't very surprised by his father showing up (neither was Rilla, once it happened). I think he's alright with it, too, since it's not his first time meeting Rilla's sister, so it doesn't feel like his parents are muscling in on an important meeting. Plus, he_ really _had to research all these facts about the palace, which means he might be relieved at Owen taking over ;).  
I think that for the past few years, Ken's relationship with his parents was somewhat formal and business-like, but he's had bursts of trying to connect with them - Leslie especially - on a more emotional level, too. I think in some way, all three longed to bridge the gap between them and made attempts to do it, but ultimately, they didn't know and don't know how to repair the fractures permanently. Ken telling Leslie about Rilla was him trying to do something he considers part of a _normal _parent-child relationship and Leslie giving advice was her responding to it, but neither of them knew how to transfer that to their every day relationship. So, it's a sign that they_ want _to connect, but don't really know how to.  
You know me well enough to know that there will be difficult times after the happy ones and yes, Leslie going through a dark phase will be part of that. Therefore, I can promise that you will see how Ken deals - or _not _deals - with that.  
This corona thing is crazy, isn't it? I understand drastic measures are in order and that social distancing is vital, but I desperately hope they won't put us on full lockdown. People will go mad being locked up like that for weeks on end!_

 _To Mammu:_  
 _No problem at all. The world really gives us a lot to mull on these days, so I completely understand. I hope that despite everything, you're doing well :).  
Yes, I went to Buckingham Palace in the summer of 2019. I've also been to Kensington Palace twice and visited Windsor Castle with a fanfiction friend last May. It was very helpful to see these places in person, plus I picked up their very helpful guidebooks that have pictures and floor plans and lots of useful trivia information. So, yes, everything described here does exist and I'm glad I managed to make it feel like the reader was present :).  
There will indeed be darker times again, but we won't focus in that right now. Before they happen, we have lots of light, happy, frothy chapters waiting for us, which I think is jut what everyone needs right now.s_


	68. A child came out to wonder

_London, England  
July 2014_

 **A child came out to wonder**

I nudge Jake with my elbow. "Penny for your thoughts?"

He looks up at the building in front of us, then over at me. "I'm trying to decide whether it's too large or not large enough."

Smiling, I shake my head. "It's a bit of both, I think."

It really is. Taking Wren House out of context, it's ridiculously large for one person, but considering who that one person is, it's almost… well, not _normal_ , but… not as grand as expected. It might be situated within the boundaries of what is the Kensington Palace complex, but if one expects princes to live in actual palaces and castles proper, a home like Wren House would certainly come as a surprise – and that's despite its five bedrooms, five reception rooms and an as yet undetermined number of bathrooms.

Putting an arm around Jake ( _when_ did he grow taller than me?), I guide him towards the entrance door. Looking over my shoulder, I call out, "Izzie? Are you coming?"

Moments later, there are footsteps and a spray of gravel as Izzie sprints towards us. "I'm here!" she announces, dramatically raising her hand to her temple in an imitation of a salute. (We went to watch the Changing of the Guard yesterday and the soldiers in their bear skin hats left a lasting impression on her.)

I push the code into the number pad and wait for the front door to swing open. Sticking my head in, I call out, "Ken?"

But my only answer is silence. Looking around the entrance hall, I notice that the entire place has a feeling of emptiness. There's no-one here.

"Not home?" asks Jake.

"Doesn't look like it," I reply, pulling the door close again. "He should have been back by now, but he had an engagement this morning. Maybe it ran over time."

Izzie pouts. "But he promised us a surprise!"

"I know he did, sweets," I sooth her. "I'm sure he'll be back soon. Let's check at the office whether they know anything."

I try to make it sound exciting, but at seven, Izzie isn't so easily fooled anymore. "Offices are boring," she informs me.

Can't argue with that.

"There are nice people in this particular office," I promise her. "They might tell us where Ken is and then we can go get our surprise."

Strictly speaking, I suppose it's _my_ surprise, given that today is _my_ 25th birthday, but I have a feeling my niece wouldn't agree with that assessment.

Izzie considers me, appearing torn. It's only when Jake stretches out a hand towards her and encourages, "come on, Iz, let's have a look", that Izzie reluctantly nods. Apparently, her aversion to offices runs deep.

With Jake firmly holding his sister's hand, we walk over to the palace building. The official part of Kensington Palace is comparatively small, but the entire complex is a maze of buildings, corridors and courtyards that most tourists aren't aware of. Ken's staff offices are at the back of the palace, not too far from Wren House.

As we walk towards it, I spy a familiar head of golden curls and raise a hand to greet Persis. She, however, takes one horrified look at Jake and Izzie and vigorously shakes her head.

(Persis, it must be understood, is terrified of children. It's not a very convenient fear for a royal to have.)

"Who's that, Aunt Rilla?" asks Izzie, squinting in direction of Persis. (I make a mental note to talk with Joy about getting her eyes checked.)

"That's no-one, darling," I lie, moving to block Izzie's view of Persis, lest her eyesight is better than I assume.

Jake, having both excellent eyes and an excellent memory, raises an eyebrow at me. Clearly, he, at least, has recognised Persis.

While Izzie cranes her neck to try and get a better look at a retreating Persis, I lean closer to Jake and warn quietly, "If we tell Izzie that that there is a real life princess, we won't ever reach the office."

"Good point," he mutters back.

Grasping his sister's hand tighter, he lengthens his stride, leaving Izzie no choice but to start jogging to keep up with him.

"Not so fast, Jakey!" she immediately protests, but Jake doesn't slow down until Persis is safely gone and the three of us have reached the outer door leading to Ken's staff office.

We've barely entered, when we're spotted by Charlotte, Ken's personal assistant. (I must admit to not being entirely sure what her job description entails. I've learned their positions, but I'm still hazy on what most of them actually _do_ day in, day out.)

"Miss!" Charlotte exclaims, looking a little flustered. "We weren't expecting you!"

"It's okay," I assure her quickly. "We just came to ask whether anyone here knows where he is." In this office, there's no need to clarify who 'he' is.

Charlotte shakes her head regretfully. "I don't know anything. According to his diary, he should have been back by now."

"That's what he told me, too," I confirm. "If it's alright, I'll ask the others whether they know anything?"

"Absolutely," agrees Charlotte, quickly stepping aside to let us pass.

As I walk down the corridor, Jake and Izzie in tow, I briefly stop to look into the office to my right. It's where the communications team has their desks, and I quickly greet Arlene, the Chief Communications Officer, and her two deputies, Emmett and Roisin. He's an old hand, but she is only in her third week on Ken's staff roster.

With his air force training finished for good, Ken has been indicted into what is a full-time royal position. Accordingly, his staff was given a boost as well, with the addition of Roisin and Andrew, who's the second assistant private secretary.

Andrew is sharing an office with Melissa, who was recently promoted from _assistant to the private secretary_ to simply _assistant private secretary_ (and yes, I've been ensured there's a marked difference), but when I reach it, only Melissa is there.

"Miss Rilla!" she calls out, getting up from her desk. "And you two must be Jacob and Isabella!"

"Hullo, Miss," Jake greets. Izzie just eyes this strange, cheery woman with distrust.

"We don't want to keep you for long, but we're looking for him. You don't happen to know whether he's still at the army thing?" I ask Melissa.

She nods. "Apparently, it's been rather difficult to get him to leave. Oliver had Felix sent a message to tell us they're running late and ask us to inform you as well."

Oliver is Ken's private secretary, which is the highest-ranking position among his staff. Felix is what they call an equerry, that is, a military officer seconded to serve a member of the royal family. I have no idea quite _what_ he does, but he usually accompanies Ken when he's doing something military-related.

Today, Ken is at some army base to open a new rehabilitation centre for soldiers wounded on active duty. I should probably have known he'd be hard to pry loose, given how strongly he's drawn to the military. After his return from Scotland, they even gave him a part-time position with the Headquarters Air Command over at the air force station in High Wycombe, to soften the blow of finishing his pilot training. Luckily for me, High Wycombe is just an hour's drive from London, which enables Ken to firmly base himself at Wren House and the two of us to actually _see_ each other. It's nice, seeing him.

(Nice enough, even, that I'm once again reminded of Toppy Wentworth-Watson – or, Toppy Home now – predicting that he'd be given just such a military job after his training. With this part of her prediction come true, I can't help wondering about the _other_ part of it. The one that focused on Ken's private, rather than his professional life.)

Shaking off my thoughts (Jake _was_ beginning to look at me oddly), I smile at Melissa. "Any idea when to expect him?"

"Not for another hour," she answers regretfully. "In the meantime, maybe Jacob and Isabella would like to have a look at Kensington Palace?"

She looks over at the children (I wonder how long until I'll have to stop calling Jake that?) and while my nephew just shrugs politely, Izzie's interest is clearly piqued. "A real palace?" she asks, staring up at Melissa in rapture.

I refrain from pointing out, that strictly speaking, we already _are_ in a real palace. I know that for Izzie, unless it looks the part, it doesn't count. And her idea of a palace includes more gold and swirls than Joy would be comfortable with.

"A real palace!" declares Melissa, smiling widely. "We even have a special exhibition about the Hanoverian Kings on. It's called _Glorious Georges_."

"George!" exclaims Izzie, while turning to me. "Just like your George?"

"Just like my George," I confirm, despite knowing that George would be indignant at the suggestion that he's owned by anyone, even me. "He was named for King George III."

"The mad one," chimes in Jake. (Trust him to know.)

Izzie frowns at him. "George is _not_ mad!"

"No-one suggested he was, sweetheart," I sooth her, draping and arm around her shoulders and pulling her into my side. "He's the best of cats."

"He _is_!" insists Izzie, glaring at Jake for good measure. He, for his part, rolls his eyes at her, but he does it in the long-suffering way of someone very used to her antics.

Melissa follows this exchange with some puzzlement, so I quickly tell her, "We'd like to look at the palace." 'The palace', in this context, meaning the oldest part of KP that is nowadays open to the public.

"Great!" Melissa claps her hands together. "Please follow me, everyone!"

I don't tell her that I could find the way easily by myself, instead allowing her to play the guide. I steer Izzie to the door, keeping her close to me. Jake, I know, will come with us, because Jake is reliable like that.

With Melissa leading us, we cross the Prince of Wales' Court and pass through a short corridor to the larger Clock Court. Entering another building and walking along a longer corridor stretching to our left, we reach a door that leads us to the aptly names King's Grand Staircase. (The King in this case was, if I remember correctly from Owen's explanations, the first of the Georges.)

"There we are!" announces Melissa cheerfully.

"Thank you." I nod and smile at her, waiting until she has withdrawn, before turning back to the children.

Izzie gazes up at the rather impressive staircase, her eyes round and her mouth falling open. Apparently, this meets her expectations of what a palace is supposed to look like. Jake, on the other hand, glances furtively at a group of tourists, who were evidently surprised by our appearance. Their expressions as they stare at as are not so very differently from Izzie's as she gapes at the painted walls around us.

"Aunt Rilla?" she asks loudly. "Who are all these people?" She points at the people who have been painted to look like they're surrounding the staircase, leaning down to catch a glimpse at whoever is ascending.

Suffice to say, I know none of them. I think they're probably courtiers of some sort?

Not that I can admit that to Izzie, naturally.

"Well, I believe this one is called Bernie," I tell her instead as we walk up the stairs and point to a painted man in a funny hat. "He's a balloon manufacturer."

"He's not named Bernie, Aunt Rilla!" protests Izzie, giggling.

"I believe he is," I insist. "And the woman next to him is Christabel, his sister."

From behind us, Jake adds, "Christabel breeds poodles. She is famous for her prize-winning royal poodles."

"So she is." I nod, trying to keep a straight face.

Izzie is laughing properly now, clearly delighted with the whimsical tale Jake and I are spinning.

"Do you see the young boy over there?" asks Jake, leaning forward so he's almost level with his sister. "His name is Xavier. He has bad breath."

"And next to him is his mother Orchid, who tunes triangles for a living," I declare with regards to a woman in a blue dress.

"Triangles don't need to be tuned, Aunt Rilla!" Izzie informs me through her laughter.

I make a point to look surprised. "Not? Well, I didn't say she was very successful at her job."

"More successful than poor Hawk. He trains mealworms as carrier animals," explains Jake seriously.

"Bless him." I shake my head mournfully.

Izzie is overcome by giggles, not made better by Jake snatching her and starting to tickle her sides.

(I'm dimly aware of the tourists around us, probably hearing bits of what we say and thinking us quite mad, but honestly, I don't care. Let them think what they want!)

Freeing herself from her brother's grasp, Izzie runs ahead, up the stairs and straight into the long King's Gallery (named for, I think, King William III, just to be confusing), thus kick-starting our tour through the palace. As we walk, Jake and I continue to spin our tale about Bernie and Christabel, Xavier and Orchid, and poor Hawk and his mealworms, keeping Izzie suitably entertained.

She also appears to be rather taken with the rooms designed for the use of various kings, but the less ornate queens' rooms clearly disappoint her and she's vocal about the unfairness of it. (If there ever was a feminist in the making, it's this girl.) I try to explain that while Windsor Castle is a fortress and Buckingham Palace is real representative palace, Kensington Palace has more of a country house feel, but Izzie just wrinkles her nose in boredom and so I go back to talking more about how Xavier's breath is so bad it's been discovered to wake the dead. (The idea of this seems to fascinate Izzie, much more than it scares her.)

Between the tales and the palace rooms, we're well occupied and the hour passes more quickly than expected. It's for that reason that, when a pair of hands places itself on my hips without warning, I jump.

Izzie laugh. Jake grins. The Australian tourists by the window gape.

"Hello, love," Ken greets me cheerfully.

"Hello yourself." I turn to look at him. (Noticing, not without a sliver of regret, that he's changed out of his uniform.)

"Hey Ken," Jake chimes in.

"Hey Ken," parrots Izzie, jumping up and down in excitement.

(The Australia tourists continue to gape.)

Ken bends down to kiss me softly, murmuring "happy birthday" against my lips.

Behind us, at least two of the Australian tourists gasp loudly. Jake grimaces and turns away. Izzie claps her hands in front of her face, loudly proclaiming, "Ewww!"

Taking a step back, Ken reaches out to ruffle her hair. Izzie stares at him in indignation, patting her hair down violently.

"I'm sorry for having kept you waiting," Ken apologises, looking at me. "Especially today."

"It's fine," I assure him, smiling to show that I mean it. "I know it was important to you."

"We looked at the palace," pipes up Izzie, her disarrayed hairstyle immediately forgotten. "I think it's mean that the boys got the nicer rooms."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ken tells her, barely hiding his smile.

Izzie nods importantly. "But Rilla and Jake told me all about how Hawk teaches his mealworms to crawl in code."

Jake and I share a conspiratorial smile. Ken blinks in confusion.

"Absolutely," he says, trying to hide his bewilderment. "The famous Hawk and his famous… mealworms."

Looking up at me, he mouths, " _What_?"

In reply, I just shrug and smile. He gives me a dark look that would be more convincing if he wasn't also doing his hardest not to break out into laughter.

"Alright then," he tells Izzie, taking her hand. "So, tell me about Hawk and his mealworms."

"And Christabel and her poodles!" insists Izzie, skipping along next to him. "And Xavier whose breath is so icky he can _wake dead people_!"

"Yes," replies Ken, his voice all strained from the effort of not laughing. "About them, too."

So, Izzie tells him about them, chatting a mile a minute as we cross Queen's Gallery and descend down the adjoining Queen's Staircase. (Both are much less ornate than their male counterparts. Izzie is on to something there.)

"You know," remarks Jake conversationally as we follow Ken and Izzie downstairs, "if you don't marry him, Iz absolutely will."

I reach up to lightly box his ears.

"I'm not discussing this. Not with you and certainly not here," I inform him, doing my best to look authoritarian.

Either I'm doing a bad job or it's simply lost on Jake, because he just shrugs, as if to say 'suit yourself'.

At least he drops the subject, which is just as well since we've caught up to Ken and Izzie waiting by the foot of the stairs. Under Ken's direction, the four of us cross Princess Court and move back into Clock Court where we're all bundled into a car that is set to whisk us away to where Ken's promised surprise awaits.

The surprise that turns out to be –

"A magic show!" cries Izzie, her expression rapturous.

Ken smiles at her. "Do you like it?"

"I _love_ it!" exclaims Izzie, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the door. (Beckett and Butcher follow them discreetly. Saunders, I notice, hangs back a little.)

Over his shoulder, Ken looks at Jake and me. "And you two?"

"Of course we love it," I assure him, while elbowing Jake in the side not too discreetly.

"Absolutely," Jake scrambles to agree. "We, uh, love it. Very much so."

Ken shakes his head at us, but he's still smiling. Jake and I exchange a grin. (We're just teasing and I know that Ken knows it. The magic show _is_ a lovely idea.)

As it always happens when Ken turns up somewhere, the employees fall over themselves to assist him, while the other guests stop whatever they're doing to stare. The bravest among them – or the most brazen, however you look at it – pull out their phones to take pictures. Noticing them, Ken smoothly slips between Izzie and the phone cameras, turning her to face in the other direction.

'Thanks' I mouth at him, and he nods to acknowledge it. He knows that Joy hates for her children to be photographed by strangers and there were already enough people snapping us back in Kensington Palace today.

(But we can't hole up inside and hide forever, can we?)

"Look away from them," I quietly instruct Jake, seeing as there's no chance of me blocking him.

"You bet," he mutters back, lowering his head and turning it to the side.

When we reach Ken and Izzie standing in the foyer, he's shaking the hand of a man I presume to be the head magician, or whatever they call him. (They always roll out the head honchos for Ken.) Izzie stares up at the man and his ridiculously tall top hat with awe.

"Miss Blythe," the man greets me, extending a hand. "My name is Jones. We're so honoured that you chose our humble venue to spend your birthday."

Looks like someone read my Wikipedia page.

"I'm glad to be here," I reply, smiling politely and shaking his hand.

I refrain from introducing the children and Mr Jones doesn't ask, instead waving us through to the main theatre. It's deliciously old-fashioned, all twinkling lights and red velvet, with little circular tables dotted around the floor in front of the stage.

"Ooohh!" makes Izzie and I can't say I disagree.

Mr Jones leads us to a table right in front of the stage, where Izzie immediately scrambles onto the chair with the best view. Jake raises both eyebrows at her, but when I nudge him, he smiles good-naturedly and sits down opposite his sister. Ken makes a point to pull out my chair (it should be my birthday more often!), before moving around the table to sit next to Izzie.

(The PPOs have melted away into the shadows, but I know they aren't far. They never are.)

Behind us, the theatre slowly fills with people and before long, the light is dimmed and the heavy curtain drawn to the side.

The show is truly amazing.

Izzie stares at every new act with wonder in her eyes, repeatedly tugging at Ken's sleeve and excitedly demanding, "Have you seen that, have you seen that?" Jake watches the tricks closely, leaning over to me several times to quietly tell me his theories about how they pulled this or that trick off, and that's how I know he's enjoying it, too.

At some point during the show, Ken reaches over the table to take my hand. When I look up at him, he inclines his head questioningly and I beam to show that yes, it was a splendid idea. When he smiles in return, it is warm and loving.

It really _was_ a splendid idea of him. There's no doubt about it and certainly not when I look at Izzie staring open-mouthed at the man doing truly magical things with soap bubbles or at Jake, concentrating on trying to figure out how they pulled off the card trick with audience participation (where they have all of us shuffle and re-shuffle our set of cards so often that in the end, somehow, we're all holding the ace of hearts).

By the end of the show, we're not the only ones on our feet, giving a standing ovation.

"That was… that was…" Izzie, unusually, appears to be speechless.

"Magical?" supplies Jake, grinning. Izzie glares at him.

I just prepare to intervene, lest they decide to ruin the evening by fighting, when Mr Jones appears at Ken's elbow and defuses the situation by offering, "Would you like to meet the performers backstage?"

What a question!

As the rest of the audience trickles outside, Mr Jones leads us behind the stage to where the different performers are waiting. (It's a bit funny to think that they're probably as awed to meet Ken as Izzie is to meet them. Celebrity works in odd ways.)

Izzie immediately runs up to the man with the soap bubbles, demanding he make more of them, just for her. (Really. That girl has charm in abundance, but not a lick of manners.) Jake, as ever his sister's polar opposite, slowly approaches the woman who did the card tricks and politely asks to see the one with the ace of hearts again, so he can try and understand it. But no explanations for Jake, please! He's adamant that he wants to figure it out himself.

While I watch them, I feel Ken wrap his arms around me from behind and settle his chin on the top of my head.

"Done with the handshaking?" I ask him.

"Apparently so," he confirms, his voice relaxed.

(I sometimes wonder whether the royals ever hurt their fingers, what with how many hands they shake day in, day out.)

Dropping a kiss on the top of my head, Ken asks, "Is it a good birthday surprise?"

"It's amazing," I answer, truthfully, and crane my neck around to smile at him.

"I'm glad," replies Ken, his smile mirroring mine. "Originally, I had a romantic weekend getaway planned for us, but I thought it might not be so romantic with a too-aware teenager and a too-opinionated child in tow."

"Probably not." I laugh. "Though there's no-one holding us back from going on that weekend trip when their parents have collected them again…"

I trail off, raising my eyebrows meaningfully. A slow grin spreads over Ken's face. "Indeed there isn't. In fact, I –"

"Aunt Rilla! Aunt Rilla!"

Ken's hands drop from my waist as we both turn to look at Izzie running towards us. She's waving her hand in the air and I catch a glimpse of something sparkling.

"Look what the man magicked from his hat for me!" Izzie cries delightedly. (Briefly, I'm sending a thanks to the heavens that whatever she's holding, it's too small to be a white rabbit. Joy would _kill_ me!)

"What is it, sweetie?" I ask, stretching out my hand for the thing she's brandishing.

Izzie doesn't relinquish her hold, but she allows me to see the necklace in her hand. It has a charm in the form of a little silver crown, with a single sparkly stone set in one corner. (I dearly hope it's fake. The security clasp on the necklace doesn't make me feel too optimistic.)

I barely have time to look at it, before Izzie snatches the necklace away again. (Clearly, she's afraid that I will make her give it back to Mr Jones.) At the same moment, I notice Jake, on the other side of the room, holding up a book and asking, "Is that really Stephen Hawking's signature?"

(If it is, it must be a good few years old.)

Looking from Izzie, running away with her necklace in her fist, and Jake standing next to a clear box where someone presumably made his book appear, I realise that it wasn't magic that is responsible for this.

"And here I was, thinking that on my birthday, _I_ get the presents," I tell Ken conversationally and raise an eyebrow.

He smiles slowly. "Then why don't we see whether we can do anything about that?" he asks. "I think I spotted something earlier… right here…"

He reaches up, touching his hand to my left ear and that's when I'm certain that yes, he planned this.

As he moves his hand back, I spot something sparkling and for a moment, my heart beats twice as fast –

But then I see that it's a pair of earrings that he's offering me and my pulse slows again.

Gingerly picking up one of the earrings, I examine it closely. It's clearly antique, or made to look like it. There's a little bow, set with tiny pyrite splinters, and below it, an almost perfectly round pearl.

"They're beautiful," I tell Ken, meaning every word.

"I'm glad you like them," he replies, smiling. "They were my grandmother's."

Abruptly, I raise my head. "Your…"

"My grandmother Alexandra," clarifies Ken. "My grandfather gave these to her on their fourth wedding anniversary. I remember that she always liked wearing them, especially in private. After her death, no-one claimed them – Aunt Mary's style is more modern and my mother really only likes rubies – but I think they will suit you perfectly."

I blink rapidly, trying to process that. "I couldn't possibly…"

Ken drops both earrings into my open palm and closes my fingers around them. "I want you to have them."

"But they're a family heirloom!" I protest. The tiny prongs of the earrings dig into my skin.

"So?" he asks, smiling. "They're just right for you."

Not knowing what to say to that, I slowly open my palm and look down at the earrings, sparkling in the dim light. They aren't… they aren't what I initially thought, in that first fraction of a second, but… they're _something_.

My heart beats a little bit faster again.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Circle Game' (written_ _by Joni Mitchell, released by her in 1970_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:_  
 _Oh, it will absolutely be the best kind of drama! Not for the characters, but certainly for us. I have a very interesting subplot planned that will catapult Leslie and Ken into their very darkest moods and we will certainly see how Rilla deals with that - and helps them deal with it, too. It's a little way off yet and I still have to write it, but I think it will be a pivotal time._  
 _Ken's a bit of a slow learner, but he's no lost cause ;). He took notes about where he failed before and he's definitely trying to do better. There's introducing Rilla to his public royal life in ways he never did before, there's introducing her to his wider family and yes, there's sticking by her side to make sure she's alright through it all. Rilla is no damsel in distress and handles even odd situations well, but she certainly prefers Ken veering towards being a little too protective compared to him being barely present. She can handle this, but it's easier with him by her side.  
You're absolutely not reading too much into Great-Aunt Tanya's approval of Rilla! ;) As you said, Owen and Leslie primarily see her as the woman to make Ken happy , but Great-Aunt Tanya has lived a century of being a royal and she knows what it takes. I think she's heard quite a bit about Rilla and observed her, too, so her approval is not to be underestimated! Plus, I like writing her because of her attitude and her family history, which was fun to compose. (Yes, I did save Olga from the Bolsheviks, but I made her enter into an unhappy marriage and killed her in childbed shortly after her family died, so... not much of a happy life either, sadly. At least she got to be a mum in this, I guess?)  
You're a fellow PhD sufferer! My condolences! I submitted my dissertation seven weeks ago and I'm so glad it was before the world plunged into madness, so I really feel you having to finish it under these circumstances. It's tough, having to concentrate on a PhD when all of this is going on. I wish you much strength, both in getting it finished and in getting through the craziness we now call life!  
_

 _To Guest:  
I've sat on the title of the last chapter for quite a while before finally using it, because it's such a great fit. Of course, the complete line is "Into this house we're born, into this world we're thrown", but ff-net doesn't allow chapter titles as long as that. But the second half really fits well with regards to Rilla, so in my mind, the previous chapter always had the longer title, encompassing the entire lyrics.  
Ken's extended family has been very clear in my mind from early on as well, so it was much fun to finally write them! Great-Aunt Tanya is indeed a duck and will prove to be supportive of Rilla. Tom, Dick and Harry are a case of "you get what you pay for", but there's more than meets the eye when it comes to their mother. We will re-examine Aunt Mary's opinions and her past at a later date and not all is as it seems here.  
Judging from RoI, I always felt Rilla had a knack for organising things and for dealing with unforeseen situations. She's very young and living through incredibly trying time (while raising a baby!) without much emotional support, what with her parents being mostly absent. She's resilient and she rises to a challenge, if it's a war or a goat eating the wedding bouquet ;).  
_


	69. Go on your summer vacation

_Isle of Wight, England  
August 2014_

 **Go on your summer vacation**

The view from Osborne House's breakfast room is nothing short of spectacular. It looks to the east, to the morning sun. There's a terrace directly below it, with manicured flower beds in what I learned is the Tuscan style. From the terrace, a wide path leads past a fountain and through the gardens. In the distance are the shining waters of the Solent.

Having seen it, I get why the royal family likes to come here for their holidays. It _feels_ like a vacation here. It also feels like we're much further away from London than we actually are. Osborne House was built in what Teddy called the Italianate style and it wouldn't be amiss somewhere on the Amalfi Coast. The glittering Solent in the distance could easily be mistaken for the Mediterranean Sea as well.

In short, it is a very pleasing place to be spending my holidays. It's the first summer I'm not returning to Glen (not even a boss as understanding as Pamela gives me enough weeks off to do both) and yes, it does feel a little strange, but the Isle of Wight is a more than adequate alternative.

"Do you want some more?" offers Teddy and holds up the pitcher with orange juice (freshly squeezed, of course).

I push my glass in his direction and smile in thanks. Breakfast at any palace is always a scrumptious affair. As, to be honest, are lunch, tea and dinner. When it comes to food, the royals certainly don't go wanting.

"Any plans for today?" asks Teddy as he pours the juice.

"Ken should be back soon-ish," I answer and shrug. "I wanted to check with him first. We'll probably just make it a lazy day though."

"The best kind of day," replies Teddy with a quick smile.

I can't disagree. I've spent most of my days at Osborne just lazing around and it's been glorious. I already finished an entire book, I generally go swimming once or twice a day and I eat more of the delicious food than is good for my figure.

"I imagine Ken probably won't mind a quiet day either," I remark and take a sip of my juice. "Yesterday was quite hectic for him."

It being the centenary of the start of the Great War, Ken spent the last two days at various remembrance events in Belgium. It started with him attending the Last Post at the Menin Gate in Ypres the day before yesterday. The following morning, he was received by the Belgian King and Queen at Liege, followed by a big international remembrance ceremony at Mons and lastly, after a hurried trip back across the channel, an evening vigil at Westminster Abbey. (Look! I did my homework!) He spent the night in London and we're expecting him sometime –

Both Teddy and I jump when the door suddenly opens and Ken enters. Speak of the devil.

I start to rise from my chair to greet him, but when I get a look at his face, I slowly sit back down. His expression is thunderous.

"You." He points at a footman standing in a corner. "Find Presley and send him here."

The footman hurries outside, seemingly glad to escape the room. His colleague remains standing, shoulders drawn up, until Ken dismisses him with an impatient jerk of the head.

"Um… Ken?" I ask carefully and stand up. Next to me, Teddy shrinks in his chair.

Ken looks at us, as if seeing us for the first time. His expression softens a bit when his eyes meet mine, but there's still a deep crease between his brows. Sighing, he pushes a hand through his hair. "Good morning."

"Morning," murmurs Teddy.

"What is the matter?" I want to know, not bothering with niceties.

Sighing again, Ken rubs his face. "Have you seen today's paper?"

"Not yet," I reply. Looking down at Teddy, I can see him shake his head.

Ken holds up a rolled paper and suddenly, there's a sinking feeling in my stomach. This can't be good.

But before I get an explanation, there's a sharp knock on the door.

"Yes," Ken calls out and moments later, Presley enters. I've seen him around here often enough to know him to be head of Osborne House's security team.

Without a greeting of any sort, Ken tosses the paper on the table between us and Presley. "Have you seen this?" he demands to know.

"Yes, Sir," answers Presley.

Ken considers the other man for a moment, his eyes hard. Then – "Do better."

"Yes, Sir," answers Presley.

With an impatient wave of his hand, Ken dismisses him and Presley hurries to leave. Ken looks after him until the door is firmly closed, before reaching for the paper and looking down at it, frowning.

I exchange a look with Teddy, who shrugs helplessly.

I don't recognise Ken like this. I mean, he can take the staff for granted and, in the vein of those being used to having servants around, accepts their service without questioning it, but I've never seen him be this… well, rude. Usually, he's at least polite, if not falling over himself to be grateful. That dressing down he just gave poor Presley, however…

 _What_ is in that paper?

Pushing my chair back, I walk over to him and pluck the paper from his hand. He tries to grab it back, but I'm quicker, taking a few steps backwards until there's a safe distance between us. Only then do I look down at the paper.

There's a large picture of me and Teddy at the beach, waves lapping at our feet. Above it, in large block letters, is the headline _All in the Family: Cinderella swaps Princes_.

Slowly, I lower the paper and meet Ken's gaze.

"What is it?" asks Teddy, half-rising from his chair.

I toss him the paper without breaking eye contact with Ken. Moments later, I can hear Teddy groan. "Damn."

"Damn right," Ken agrees testily.

"They… they must have taken them yesterday," I remark, because I have no idea what else to say. I know because in the pictures, I'm wearing my new polka dot bikini that I only got when shopping in Cowes last weekend. It is very cute and I already know I will never wear it again.

Ken turns to look at Teddy. "You should have been more careful."

Teddy slides back down in his chair and lowers his head.

"It's not Ted's fault!" I protest, moving between them. "I didn't see any photographers either. They must have used long-lens cameras."

"Of course they did," Ken agrees impatiently. "But it's not like they haven't pulled that trick before. Teddy should have known better and Presley _definitely_ should have anticipated it."

"It's not a security issue though, is it?" I ask, frowning. "Not really. It's just… photos." It doesn't feel like it's 'just' photos, but I'm trying not to focus on that.

Behind me, Teddy gets up from his chair. "Ken is right. It _is_ a security issue. If they got close enough to use a long-lens camera, they were also close enough to use a sniper rifle."

A _sniper rifle_?

I stare at him.

Ken reaches out to slip and arm around my waist and draw me closer. "No-one is saying there was any real danger," he soothes. "But they should have extended the secure perimeter while you were at the beach. That they didn't is Presley's fault."

"But not Teddy's!" I insist. I still don't see how Teddy should have been able to prevent this.

"I should have checked what perimeter they were running," Teddy explains, looking downcast.

I frown. I don't think that's his job, to be honest. I mean, if it is, what are all those highly trained police officers even _for_?

But I don't press the point, instead reaching out to pick up the paper lying on the table in front of Teddy. Flicking through it, I notice that in addition to the big front page picture, there are more inside, all of them showing the same motif. Unconsciously, I re-draw the lines of the polka dot bikini with the tip of my finger.

"Why do they always print those pictures?" I ask no-one in particular. "Why always _those_ pictures?"

I know the answer, of course. I'm not that stupid. It's just…

"You're upset," Ken states, his arm tightening around my waist. It's not a question.

I look up at him and shrug, trying to downplay the issue. "It's… it's nothing major. I just… it reminds me of when they photographed me in my apartment last winter. That was… not nice."

In fact, it was awful. I still remember how I felt upon seeing those pictures, the feelings of nausea and disgust. To know that all around the world, thousands of people were looking at pictures of me in my underwear… it made me feel violated.

I feel the same way now.

"No," agrees Ken, his voice strained. "It wasn't nice at all. Neither is this."

It isn't.

"We'll send them a warning," he promises, taking the paper from me and tossing it back on the table. "An official one, if need be. And I think you should get legal advice yourself. You were on private property and they had no right to violate that. They also had fair warning after the February pictures and this… this is too much."

Yes. It is.

"Will it help?" I ask.

Ken hesitates. "I don't know," he admits. "But it might. At least it should prevent them from reprinting that particular set of pictures." He nods at the paper on the table.

Of course, by then, everyone will have seen them. There's no getting that particular genie back into the bottle.

I press a little closer to Ken and he kisses the top of my head. "I'm sorry," he murmurs into my hair.

"I know," I whisper back, standing on tiptoes and hiding my face in the crook of his neck.

It's only when I hear a rustle behind me and remember that Teddy is still there that I take a step back. Looking over my shoulder, I see him stare resolutely at the window, his ears slightly pink.

From Teddy, my gaze falls back on the paper and for the first time, I truly take in the headline. My attention initially drawn by the pictures, I didn't pay it any heed before, but now –

Turning back to Ken, I hurriedly assure him, "There's nothing to that headline! I know it might look like that, but it wasn't. Persis was there with us. I don't know why they didn't photograph her. They must cut her out of the pictures. She's here now, too, she's just sleeping late. You can ask her. I promise –"

Ken silences me by putting a finger to my lips.

"I know there's no truth to it," he soothes me, holding my gaze. "It's alright."

I feel myself growing calmer, my breath slowing down.

"Good," I say simply.

And that could have been it, but from behind me, I hear Teddy remark, "Don't worry. He knows no woman would ever choose me over him."

Frowning, I turn to look at him. He is still looking out of the windows, but his words hang between us. There was something… something strangely _bitter_ in those words. Too bitter, anyway, for gentle, kind Teddy.

I don't know what to reply, but thankfully, Ken does. Looking at his brother for a long moment, he tells him calmly, "I think no such thing, Ted. I just know there's no truth to that headline because she's my girlfriend and you're my brother and I trust you both. That's all there is to it."

For a second or two, Teddy doesn't react, but then he lowers his head, his face reddening. "Sorry," he mutters. "I didn't mean…"

"It's okay," Ken interjects quietly. "It's fine."

Letting go of me, he reaches over to squeeze Teddy's shoulder. When Teddy looks up, there's a moment when their eyes meet and something passes between them – a kind of understanding I don't think they often share.

It's only for a second or two, before Ken straightens again and looks at me. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I smile wryly. "I'm not okay yet, but… I will be."

Sadly, I've been through worse than this. And at least this time, I'm not alone.

I don't say it, but Ken seems to sense it anyway. He lightly trails his fingertips along the side of my face. "You're very brave."

Smiling, I shake my head. "I'm not brave, I'm just stubborn," I correct. "And in fact, I'm too stubborn to have those vultures ruin our breakfast. I hope you haven't eaten yet?"

It's an attempt to close down the subject (for now, that is) and Ken nods slightly to signify that he understands. We both know we will discuss it later, when it's just the two of us, until he's satisfied that I will truly be alright, but this is not the place.

In a deliberately cheerful tone, Ken answers, "Not so much that I can't eat again. And you, Ted? Full already?"

"Not at all," replies Teddy, daring a tentative smile.

And with that, we sit back down and return to breakfast. The paper gets unceremoniously brushed to the floor by Ken and really, that's exactly where it belongs.

We don't speak of the subject again that morning, not when Persis finally comes down for breakfast and not when the four of us take a walk through the grounds afterwards, making sure to steer clear of the beach that has proven to be not so private. (Maybe next time, I should use Queen Victoria's old bathing machine?)

It's only in the afternoon that I spot Ken quietly talking to his father and know that they're discussion the issue.

Owen and Leslie were also away yesterday to attend remembrance ceremonies. Owen attended a service in Glasgow, while Leslie was in London to re-open the Imperial War Museum. Later, they both joined Ken at the evening vigil and this morning, they stayed on in London to visit a poppy installation at the Tower, arriving back at Osborne just in time for tea.

Upon their return, they joined their children and me in one of Osborne's drawing rooms, where Persis was skimming through a book on elasticity training for horses, Teddy was working on his master thesis (due next month, if he wants to graduate on time), Ken was studying notes on his next royal engagement and I was pretending to read my second novel of the vacation, but was mostly just sitting there and letting my thoughts wander.

The entry of Leslie and Owen coincided with tea being served, resulting in everyone casting their books and notes aside to pay suitable attention to the little cakes and sandwiches and not-so-little scones being served.

Munching away on the food and chatting to Leslie, Teddy and Persis, it takes me a moment to notice Ken drawing Owen aside and speaking quietly to him, but when I do, I appreciate their discretion. I don't need those photographs to ruin even more of anyone's day.

"So, do you children have any plans for tomorrow?" asks Leslie and nibbles on a petit four (which is surprisingly French for this most English of meals).

"Rilla and I are considering giving the boys a rematch on the tennis court," Persis announces and winks at me over a cream-and-jam-laden scone.

"Isn't that rather unfair on them?" enquires Leslie, smiling.

She has a point. When Persis and I play against Ken and Teddy, we win every time. I'm far from being the long lost Williams sister, but I know which way to hold the racquet. Teddy, on the other hand, has two left hands when it comes to ball sports and is also liable to fall over his own feet. Ken's a better player than both of us combined, but Persis outplays him any day.

It would probably much fairer if we played mixed doubles, Ken and I against Persis and Teddy, but Persis is having none of it. (She loves winning, Persis does.) As playing with her means I rarely have to do more than stand around looking pretty and hit the occasional easy ball, I'm inclined to agree with her.

Right now, Persis seems to consider her mother's question about the fairness and unfairness of our teams. Popping the last bite of scone into her mouth, she mumbles, "They're big boys. They'll get over it. Besides, there's no-one preventing them from playing better."

Valid point.

Next to me, Teddy rolls his eyes. "How about we do a pub quiz this evening and see who's preventing _you_ from being better at _that_?" he suggests sarcastically.

Persis considers him. "No."

Teddy shakes his head, clearly giving his sister up for a lost cause. Leslie catches my eye over the coffee table and smiles at her children's antics.

(There's something incredibly reassuring about the fact that royal siblings are just like other, _normal_ siblings all over the world. Some truths are universal and sibling behaviour is definitely one of them.)

I return Leslie's smile, before reaching for a bite-sized piece of millionaire's shortbread. As I do, there's a knock on the door and moments later Elphinstone and Oliver walk in. They are, respectively, Owen's and Ken's private secretaries and no, I still haven't figured out whether Elphinstone is a first name or a surname. (Maybe he only has the one?)

Moving my gaze away from Elphinstone and Oliver, I look at Ken and see him call me over with a discreet movement of his head. Part of me is resistant, not wanting to be reminded of why the private secretaries were asked to come here, but the other, larger part, wants to hear what is being said. If it's about me, I should be there.

Quickly swallowing my bite of cake, I get up and walk towards the four men. As I pass her, Leslie touches my arm and gives me an encouraging smile.

When I reach him, Ken takes my hand. Owen's smile mirrors his wife's. Elphinstone and Oliver both nod politely.

"So…" I begin, squaring my shoulders. "What have we got?"

"We had Communications send a message to the editor of that… I hesitate to call it a 'newspaper'." Oliver grimaces slightly. "They were warned not to reprint or resell the pictures, seeing as they were unlawfully obtained."

"Is that certain?" asks Owen.

Elphinstone nods. "The Duke of Kendal and Miss Blythe were on private property and we established that to get the pictures, the photographers must have brought their boat closer to the shore than they were allowed to."

"We sent a warning to other media outlets, telling them not to buy or print the pictures," adds Oliver. "We think they will adhere to it. It's not worth the risk if they can't get it as an exclusive and it's too late for that."

"But the pictures are probably already on the internet," I point out, shuffling a little closer to Ken. He squeezes my hand.

"They are and unfortunately, it's difficult exercise any control over what happens online," acknowledges Elphinstone. "However, people need to search for them online, so there's less accessibility, especially for the older demographic. Additionally, in preventing the papers from reprinting them, we're preventing them from making money from the pictures."

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "Can Rilla and Teddy sue them? Try to make them cough up some of that money?"

"We liaised with our legal advisors and they say there's a high chance of success," confirms Oliver. "Not only can a lawsuit prevent the papers from reprinting the pictures, damages will almost certainly be awarded."

"It was recommended that the Duke of Kendal also brings a lawsuit, to emphasise the point. The Princess Royal might also consider such a step, at least inasmuch as it concern the future publishing of these photos. I understand she was cut out of the original pictures, so there's a possibility that the parts showing her will be published later," explains Elphinstone.

Looking down at me, Ken asks, "What do you say? It's your decision."

I frown, thinking it over. "If I sue… do I have to go to court?" I don't want to go to court.

"Certainly not!" Owen assures me. "In cases like these, all parties sent their legal representatives."

'Legal representatives' sounds awfully serious. I wasn't aware I even _had_ any.

"And… won't there be a backlash if I sue?" I want to know, still a little hesitant. "Won't people think I'm being unreasonable? I mean, it's not like… it's just a bikini."

"This is why we recommend that the Duke of Kendal also sues," replies Oliver. "The public knows that the royal family only takes legal steps if it's truly necessary. If there's a concentrated effort, we feel there will be more understanding. Should damages be awarded, we recommend they be donated, which is also sure to raise more goodwill."

Well… they're the experts.

"We don't want to pressure you into doing anything you don't want to do," Owen tells me. "And of course, Teddy also gets to decide whether he wants to sue or not."

"If you still need to think, we don't have to take action today," adds Ken.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elphinstone open his mouth, probably to protest that action has to be taken speedily, but a warning glance from Ken silences him. Looks like they're serious about not wanting me to feel pressured.

"If I sue… will that make it less likely that this'll happen again?" I ask.

"We can't make any promises, but we think it will make them think twice next time," answers Oliver. "If a future story is so good they feel the benefits outweigh any drawbacks, even legal ones, they will still publish, but we hope to be able to up the risks."

I nod slowly. They're all four of them looking at me and I know I need to answer, even if it's just that I still need to sleep on it.

Gnawing on my lower lip, I reflect on the conversation and, perhaps more importantly, on my feelings upon discovering the photographs today.

Nauseous, disgusted. Violated.

I raise my head. "We'll do it."

"Only if you're sure." There's concern in Ken's eyes and I squeeze his hand to show him that I'm alright.

"I am sure," I tell him. "It… it feels _good_ to be doing something. I've had to quietly swallow so much of their nastiness and I think it's time I draw a line and let them know that they've crossed it. It's not about getting damages or even about revenge, it's about… standing up, instead of taking it all lying down."

It _does_ feel good, too. It feels good to be proactive and to fight back. And yes, it also feels good that I'm not facing this alone anymore.

Ken searches my face for a moment and what he sees here seems to convince him, because he nods. "So, that's decided then."

Owen smiles and I could be wrong, but I think he looks a little proud. "Excellent!" he declares. Then, turning to Elphinstone and Oliver, "Please prepare all necessary measures. I will take the decision to my younger son and let you know what he wants to do. I think he will support a lawsuit though."

Which certainly makes things easier for me.

"Very well, Sir." Elphinstone bows his head and Oliver follows suit. They weren't told to leave, but it seems clear to them that their presence is no longer necessary. Nodding at both Ken and me, they both withdraw, quietly and quickly leaving the room.

"That was nicely efficient," remarks Owen when the door closes behind them.

"And hopefully, it will be successful," adds Ken. Letting go of my hand, he slips and arm around my shoulders and hugs me to him for a moment.

I smile at him. "I think it will be. And even if it won't… I'm already feeling better knowing that there's something I can do. That helps."

"Then I'm glad," Ken states simply.

"As am I," agrees Owen. There's a moment of silence, before he looks at Ken and says, "I really liked your speech yesterday."

It's an abrupt change of subject, leading me to believe that he's been trying to find a way to work that in elegantly for some time and finally gave up, just throwing it out there instead.

Discreetly peering up at Ken, I see that his expression is thoughtful. After a second or two, he inclines his head to accept the praise and replies, "Yours was very good, too. Very powerful."

Owen's face lights up, probably less at Ken liking his speech than at him being prepared to accept his father's praise. I have to agree that it feels like a step in the right direction.

A step is just a step though and neither of them knows what else to say, so I motion towards where Leslie, Persis and Teddy are still munching their way through the cakes and sandwiches. "Shall we see whether there's any food left?"

"Good idea. One of your best yet," answers Ken with a teasing smile. I swat at him, but it's half-hearted.

There is, as it turns out, plenty of food left (and I'm sure there's more of where it came from), so we can all liberally fill our plates, before finding a place to sit. Persis jumps up from her armchair immediately, perching on the armrest once Owen has sat down in it. Ken and I curl up in the other armchair together, while Leslie and Teddy continue to share the sofa.

"Did I hear correctly that there's a Tennis rematch in the works for tomorrow?" Owen asks his daughter while he selects a thin cucumber sandwich from his plate.

Persis nods. "Of course, we'll still win. Won't we, Rilla?"

"Sure," I agree and allow myself a triumphant little grin. Seeing it, Ken tucks at a strand of my hair. I smack his knee.

"No-one doubted that, Monkey," Owen assures Persis with an indulgent smile. "Though in the interest of keeping the family peace, what would you say to a sailing trip tomorrow?"

Persis eyes go wide. "Sailing!" It's clear she approves.

"What do you say?" Ken asks me quietly. "Do you fancy it?"

I'm… not sure? I've never gone sailing and from what I've heard, it sounds terribly complicated. But on the other hand… if it gets Ken to spend a day out with his family, I'm not likely to say no.

"Just don't except me to _do_ anything, or else, we'll all drown," I warn.

Ken laughs. "Don't worry. We'll do all the work and you can work on your tan."

"Then it will be a day well-spend," I decide, grinning.

"So that makes four of us." Owen sounds satisfied. Turning to his wife and younger son, he asks, "Darling? Teddy?"

Leslie and Teddy exchange a glance, before she reaches up to ruffle his hair. "What do you say, Bear? You can be the navigator."

Teddy smiles wryly, but looking closely, it's clear to see that there's no real resistance. He draws out the moment of hesitation for a bit longer, before finally nodding, showing more reluctance than he probably feels. (I think he just doesn't want anyone to get the idea that he's suddenly started to _enjoy_ sailing.)

"Marvellous!" declares Owen. "So, that is agreed."

It does appear so. A sailing trip with the royal family.

Let the papers write about _that_.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?' (written_ _by Peter Sarstedt, released by him in 1969_ _)._

* * *

 _To JoAnna:  
It's disconcerting how quickly children grow, isn't it? Whenever I re-meet someone who was a child when I last saw them and is now a teenager, I feel discombobulated and I feel old ;). Nothing to remind you of time passing than a child growing up in the very same time you thought you weren't changing all that much.  
Persis is generally not a people's person, which works against her often. She's kind and open with those she knows and trusts, but she feels awkward around strangers. With adults, she can at least rely on them to be polite, but kids are less predictable, so she feels especially uncomfortable around them. She's much more relaxed around her horses, being a professional and quite successful eventer. On the side, she does some well-tailored royal duties, but not as many as other family members.  
Now, as for Rilla and those earrings... She didn't run screaming in the second when she thought it might be a ring, so we shall count that as progress ;). And she accepted the family heirloom, which is also something she wouldn't have done two years previously, so that's a sign of her being much more comfortable with this royal business. Ken is indeed being a bit cryptic (as usual), but he makes it fairly plain that he considers her part of his family, so we can safely assume they're both moving towards more commitment. About time to as well, after four years!  
I, too, enjoy our chats very much! My review replies to you and my other lovely 'guest' reviewers sometimes make up a fifth of my word count per chapter ;). (No pressure at all, but if you like, you might consider making an account, so we could chat via PMs. Just something to think about :).) I definitely, _definitely _feel you with regards to the "trying, writing, erasing, ranting" and_ especially _the swearing at the PhD. While I wrote up the dissertation, the running mantra in my head was "why am I doing this, why am I doing this, why am I doing this?". (I have yet to come up with an answer.) It took me five years from the very start to submitting my dissertation (and I still have the oral exam to go, whenever it will happen under current circumstances), so I didn't exactly rush through it either ;). I mean, I always had a job unrelated to it and am well-settled in my professional life, so there was no reason to hurry for me, but it did exacerbate the "why am I even doing this"-thoughts even further. So, yeah, I'm definitely feeling you! Do you at least have an interesting subject to research and write about?  
_


	70. Never made promises lightly

_Isle of Wight, England  
August 2014_

 **Never made promises lightly**

Sailing, it turns out, is pretty hard work.

I cheerfully and not at all regretfully declared myself to be useless at it after almost strangling myself with a rope within the first ten minutes. I was thus shown a designated spot near the back where I'm not in anyone's way and am simply left to enjoy the sun and the cool sea breeze.

Rearranging my legs, I turn my face into the sun and close my eyes. I'm wearing a pair of shorts and a cute t-shirt (anything less would hardly be appropriate, even if yesterday's papers hadn't happened), so I'm expecting to have a nice tan by the end of the day.

In short, I'm definitely living the good life.

"May I sit with you?" I hear Leslie's voice somewhere above me.

Opening my eyes, I peer up at her. "Sure, absolutely." Quickly, I shuffle to the side to make space on my blanket.

Carefully, Leslie sits down next to me, folding her legs beneath her. She's wearing luxurious linen trousers and a crisp white shirt. Somehow, neither fabric shows even the tiniest of wrinkles, much less something as plebeian as sweat stains. It's as if, when faced with the elegance and beauty of Queen Leslie, not even a simple article of clothing dares to mar the perfect picture.

Having found a comfortable position to sit, Leslie looks at me and smile. "They suit you," she states, indicating the bow-and-pearl earrings I'm wearing.

(I haven't yet stopped thinking of them as 'Queen Alexandra's earrings'. Maybe that'll change with time.)

Automatically, I reach up to touch one of the earrings. "They're beautiful. I love wearing them."

Leslie nods. "When Kenneth and I went through the vaults to look for a gift for you, he honed in on them immediately. He knew you'd like them."

"He's got a pretty good hang of my taste in jewellery," I confirm. After all, he gifted me quite a few pieces between the gold circle necklace and the bow-and-pearl earrings and there was not one I didn't like.

"An important quality in a man," Leslie remarks with a conspiratorial smile.

I laugh. "Imagine having them give you ugly jewellery and then having to wear it so as not to hurt their feelings!"

"That would be unfortunate," agrees Leslie. Turning her head, she shows me her own earrings, uncut rubies set in gold, at least one centimetre diameter. (They must have cost a pretty penny.) "Owen gave me these for Christmas," she explains.

"So we know where Ken got his good taste in jewellery," I deduce.

"It would appear so," confirms Leslie with a laugh.

She turns to look at her family, sailing us over the sea with admirable ease. Teddy has indeed been cast as a navigator of sorts, standing at the wheel and giving commandos the other three follow with differing levels of good cheer. As usual, his theoretical knowledge is quite vast, even if he's not the most adapt at the practical aspect of it. At least he knows all the vocabulary, like gib and tiller and sheets (which, it turns out, is not just what you put on a bed), when it's all gibberish to me.

As Leslie watches her family, I take the opportunity to discreetly look at her out of the corner of my eye. In the three years of not meeting her, I imagined all kinds of things about her, but in the six months of getting to know her, I found most of them not to be true. She's… she's _nice_. More reserved than Owen and less likely to open up to someone quickly, but given her history, that's hardly surprising.

She also has bouts of melancholy and needs time for herself often, withdrawing for hours or sometimes even for an entire day. This morning, she took breakfast in her room and I know her children were a bit nervous she would pull out of our sailing trip, but in the end, she turned up on time and with a smile. When she did, it was as if a weight lifted off the entire family.

They're all of them remarkably light and cheerful all day, which is lovely to see. Right now, Persis is scolding Ken for almost hitting her with what I think is called the boom, causing him to catch her in a bear hug from behind and start to tickle her. She screeches in protest, but it's mixed with laughter.

"Do you know I can't remember the last time I saw them like this?" asks Leslie thoughtfully, gazing at her children.

"I suppose it must have been difficult to get everyone together when they were all studying in different places," I ponder.

Leslie turns to look at me, her expression very open. "That's the outward reason, but we both know it runs deeper."

Yes. We do.

"This is the longest Kenneth has spent with us since leaving school," Leslie tells me. "Normally, he flees within the first week."

I swallow, unsure what to say. "I'm sure he's not _fleeing_ , per se," I try to assure her, though even to myself, I'm sounding unconvincing.

"Oh, he is." Leslie, as usual, isn't sugar-coating anything. "Being with us like this is making him feel…" She hesitates.

"Left out?" I suggest.

I don't want to betray Ken's confidence, so I don't want to say too much, but this is clearly something Leslie is already aware of. She's very perceptive with regards to the feelings of others, though when it comes to Ken, both she and Owen are helpless when it comes to acting on it.

"Yes, left out," confirms Leslie slowly. "It's been like this for so long, but I don't know what to do about it. When I try to reach out, we sometimes have moments when I feel like he's opening up, but then, suddenly, he clams up and withdraws again."

Sighing, she looks at me. "When he first met you at the UN party, we talked on the phone the next day and he was so open and talkative that for a moment, it really felt like he was allowing me to be part of his life. But when I asked after you a week later, he was cagey and didn't want to speak about it. It's always like this."

Yes. Tell me about it.

Of course, I don't actually say that. Instead, I remark more carefully, "It can be difficult to get through to him when he doesn't want to talk about something."

Leslie gives me a somewhat wistful smile. "And yet, he opens up to you more than to anyone else."

"How do you know?" I ask, truly curious to understand her thinking.

"I look at you two together," Leslie answers, "and I look at him."

She nods at Ken, who has since let go of Persis and is now wrangling one of the ropes (sheets?). When he notices us looking at him, he smiles and raises a hand in a wave. I blow him a kiss, making him laugh, before the swinging boom forces him to quickly duck away.

"That he's here today – that he's here this _summer_ – is because of you," Leslie states, sounding very sure.

I'd protest for propriety's sake, but I know it's the truth. Without me here, he wouldn't have come back after the remembrance ceremonies in Belgium.

"You create a balance," Leslie adds, turning to gaze at me pensively.

"A balance?" I repeat questioningly.

Leslie pauses as if to organise her thoughts. "I noticed it last night. Persis sat with Owen and Teddy with me, as it usually is. Normally, Ken would have been on his own, but yesterday, he had you with him. Being the oldest child, he was always the one who stood alone, but now he has a person."

"I like being his person," I reply simply.

Leslie smiles. "I know."

Somehow, I think she really does.

"I think that might be why he can bear being with us," she continues thoughtfully. "With you by his side, he doesn't feel like the odd one out anymore. He's more relaxed, allowing us in, and I can see the others respond to it. Teddy and Persis love having him around and having him engage with them."

Briefly, I think back to yesterday, when Ken partly put the blame for the pictures on Teddy – unfairly, in my opinion. I wasn't so sure how much Teddy liked having his brother around then, but I did have a talk with Ken about it later in the evening and I know that this morning, he apologised, so I guess it turned out alright.

They certainly look like they get on well right now. They look… like a real family.

(It's a bit sad how remarkable that observation is.)

"I don't want you to feel like it's your responsibility to bring this family back together, but…" Leslie hesitates. "I hope we will have Kenneth and you with us again like this in the future."

"I'd like that," I reply with a smile.

Leslie smiles back. A moment of silence settles between us, but it's not of the uncomfortable kind. It's easy and relaxed and it's only when a sudden thought strikes me, that I break it.

"Why do you call him Kenneth?" I ask.

A look of confusion flits over Leslie's face. "It's his name."

"Yes, I know." I frown as I try to think of a way to voice my thoughts. "It's just that everyone else calls him Ken. And I noticed that you and Owen have nicknames for Persis and Teddy. They're Monkey and Bear, but Ken is always –"

"Kenneth," finishes Leslie for me.

I shrug, then nod.

She seems to consider my question, her expression thoughtful. "The simple answer is that he asked us not to call him by his childhood nicknames anymore. When he was small, we called him Kenny, or Kangaroo."

"Kangaroo?" I repeat, a little amused.

Leslie laughs quietly. "He had this Kangaroo plush toy," she explains. "Owen received it when he was on a tour in Australia while I was pregnant. It was hand-crocheted by this nice lady, pouch and joey included. I don't know what made us pick that particular toy over the thousands of others we were given, but when he was small, Ken was inseparable from that Kangaroo. With the names being alliterative, I think it came naturally to call him that, too."

"What made you stop?" I ask.

"He asked us to," answers Leslie, sounding a little wistful. "It must have been after his first year at boarding school. He came back home and declared that Kangaroo and Kenny were names for little boys and that he wasn't a little boy anymore."

"In some ways, I think he wasn't," I remark cautiously. "Not after…"

Leslie's face twitches. "No, not after that."

She swallows, before mustering a smile. "We had to respect his wish not to want to be called by a nickname anymore. I can't see him wanting to be called Kangaroo now either."

The thought makes me laugh. "No, probably not." Sobering slightly, I add, "But you might try calling him Ken, like everyone else does. It feels… less formal."

Inclining her head thoughtfully, Leslie seems to ponder my words. "It does, doesn't it? Do you think he'd allow it? Us calling him Ken?"

"I don't see why he wouldn't," I answer truthfully.

Almost automatically, my gaze is drawn towards Ken, who's working together with Owen to re-orient the main sail. (At least I _think_ that's what they're doing.) Persis stands next to them, hands on her hips, surveying their handiwork critically.

Once the sail is set and secured, Ken looks over at Leslie and me (I have a feeling he's been keeping an eye on us throughout). Noticing both of us observing him, he exchanges a quick word with Owen, before relinquishing his position to his sister and ambling over to where we're sitting.

"Enjoying the sun?" he asks as he crouches down next to me, dropping a kiss on my shoulder.

"It's nice," I confirm, stretching my legs and grinning at him.

He briefly rubs my ankle, before looking at his mother. "And you've been keeping Rilla company?" He says it jovially enough, but I know he still doesn't fully trust her not to scare me away. (It's funny, because there isn't a person less scary than Leslie. She's complex and sometimes hard to read, but she isn't _scary_.)

"We've had a nice chat, haven't we, Rilla?" replies Leslie. If she notices his reservations, she doesn't show it.

"Absolutely," I agree, making sure to sound especially enthusiastic.

Ken briefly searches my face, but when I just smile back openly, he relaxes. "I'm glad you're having fun." By looking from me to his mother, he's including her in the sentiment, which is a nice touch.

"We are," confirms Leslie. "It's nice to have some bonding time, isn't it, Rilla? And we love having you here as well –" She hesitates, before adding, "Ken."

When the nickname registers, he looks at her a little oddly. His expression is surprised, but not necessarily displeased. "We're enjoying it," he states after a moment and nudges me slightly. "Aren't we, love?"

"Very much so," I confirm brightly.

"I'm glad," replies Leslie, her eyes brimming with emotion. "I'm very glad."

In what appears to be a spontaneous gesture, Ken reaches out to touch her hand. She quickly grasps his fingers and squeezes them, before releasing them just as fast. Again, Ken looks surprised by that, but not in a bad way. He pulls back his hand slowly and gets back to his feet. "Well, you two keep enjoying the sun. I'm afraid I have to get back to work."

"Have fun!" I tell him cheerily and wave at him.

Laughing, he ruffles my hair. I swat his hand away and hurry to redo my ponytail, before the wind tussles it beyond repair. Ken nods and smiles at his mother, who returns the smile gratefully, before he walks back over the deck of the boat to join Owen and Persis in their wrangling of the sails. (Seriously. I know there's logic to what they're doing, but it honestly defeats me.)

"That went well," I remark, peering after Ken.

"Yes," replies Leslie after a brief pause. "Yes, it went well."

The day continues to go well, too, with the sun shining bright and welcoming from the sky right into the early hours of evening. The wind blows us hither and tither over the sea of the Solent, before the motor reliable manoeuvres us back into Cowes harbour just in time for dinner.

Royals being royals, we're awaited by a fleet of cars to take us back to nearby Osborne House, just as we were earlier by accompanied by a second boat carrying various PPOs, because no-one wants to dare the crown falling to Uncle Al.

It's just a short ride back to Osborne and despite the picnic we had on the deck of the _cutter_ (another word I learned today), I feel my stomach rumble in appreciation of the upcoming dinner.

Ken, alas, has other plans.

We've only just gotten out of the car, when he stops me from proceeding towards house. (Palace. Castle. Whatever.)

"Take a walk with me?" he asks, clasping one of my hands and rubbing his thumb over the back of it.

My stomach grumbles in protest.

Briefly, I look at the front door longingly, imagining the delicacies awaiting me there. But when Teddy, in passing, promises to save us some food, there's really no excuse not to join Ken.

"Sure," I agree, procuring a smile for him.

Taking one look at me and my clothes (still just shorts, a t-shirt and boat shoes that saw a boat for the first time in their life today), Ken reaches back into the car and grabs a pullover. When he hands it to me, I gratefully accept. It's too big for me in a way that is deliciously cosy and it smells of him. Pulling the sleeves over my fists, I snuggle into it.

Ken nods at his family in parting, before putting an arm around my shoulders and steering me along the path leading around the house. (It still feels weird to call it a mere 'house'. I know that strictly speaking, it's called that, Osborne _House_ , but it's just too massive for it to not be a weird name. Teddy says the architectural style imitates an Italian palazzo and honestly, 'palace' fits it so much better.)

The sun setting behind us casts everything in a reddish-golden glow that is a sight to behold. We walk in silence, first through the formal gardens, then along the paths winding themselves through the park.

I've been told that Osborne's grounds aren't nearly as big as those of Sandringham or Balmoral up north, but they're certainly extensive enough. In addition to the main house, there's the usual collection of outbuildings, including a stable block and a proper working farm called Barton Manor. As far as leisure goes, there's a walled garden, the tennis court, an entire golf course (usually open to the public, because the royals are generous like that), a cricket field, the Swiss Cottage of Queen Victoria's children (brought here from Switzerland and used as a playhouse by generations of royal children) and, of course, the private beach.

"Are we going to the beach?" I ask Ken, once I notice we're heading straight to the east.

"I thought we might," he confirms. "Do you mind?"

Considering this, I move my head from side to side. "Is it…" I trail off. Saying 'safe' sounds melodramatic, but I don't know how else to put it.

"I promise that no-one is getting anywhere close to that beach as long as we're here," Ken assures me. "Reed had a look at the security arrangements and gave them an update. Reed is nothing if not thorough."

Poor Presley.

"No photographers lying in wait then?" I ask, but I'm smiling to show that it's a joke (well, mostly).

"No photographers," promises Ken. Pulling me closer and kissing the top of my head, he adds, "Though seeing us together might convince them you're not having an affair with my brother."

Looking up, I can see that his grinning, his eyes sparkling with amusement. I elbow him in the side for good measure, but secretly, I'm glad he can make jokes about this. There's absolutely nothing to those lies, but I know more than one man who would have been suspicious. Ken, however, truly was serious about trusting both Teddy and me.

"I don't think I'd survive taking both princes off the market," I reply easily. "There'd be retaliation from all the women still harbouring the Disney dream." (There are surprisingly many of those, I think, given that reality doesn't have much to do with Disney at all.)

"It would be greedy of you," agrees Ken, laughing softly. I elbow him again.

We've reached the beach, walking down to it over a small gangplank. The beach not very big, but considering it's private, there's plenty of space. The surface is mostly pebbly, but Ken finds a sandy spot for us to sit down. I snuggle into him, my back against his chest, his legs on either side of mine and his arms wrapped around me.

The sea stretches out in front of us, not a ship or boat in sight, except for a police boat patrolling the perimeter in the distance. I'd wonder about how disruptive it must be for naval traffic whenever the royals are here, but honestly, right now, I don't particularly care. I'm cosy and comfortable and a little sleepy (and even my stomach has settled down).

"Do you like it here?" Ken asks quietly.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" I reply, incredulous. "I mean, look at it! How could I not?" With a sweeping gesture, I indicate the scenery around us.

Ken laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Touché. That's not what I meant though. I meant… in general."

Hmm…

"Just here?" I ask, wrinkling my nose in thought. I have a feeling he's talking about more than this.

"No, I… all of it, I think," he clarifies.

I nod slowly. That's what I thought.

Looking out over the water, I take a moment to organise my thoughts. "I like it. I genuinely enjoy spending time with your family, no matter where, and of course, this spot is beautiful. I'm enjoying this vacation very, very much."

"And what about…" Ken pauses briefly. "What about… _beyond_ the vacation?"

Huh?

I crane my neck around to look at him. He's untypically cryptic today. I don't usually know him to beat around the bush like this.

"I don't think I know what you mean," I admit slowly. (I mean, I'm pretty sure I have an _idea_ , but… I want to _hear_ what he's thinking.)

Ken blows out a breath of air, before settling his chin on my right shoulder. "What I mean is… look, I know I've been asking a lot of you this past year and – "

"Just this year?" I interrupt, turning my head and raising an eyebrow at him.

He smiles ruefully. "No, you're right. I've been asking a lot of you from the very beginning," he corrects himself.

I nod and turn back to face the sea, satisfied with his admission.

"I've done a lot of thinking – I even talked to my _parents_ – and I want you to know that I'm aware that the only reason our relationship is still going strong is because you made it so," Ken tells me quietly. "If you hadn't sacrificed what you did, we wouldn't be here today."

"No," I agree. "No, we wouldn't be."

It might be kinder or more polite to contradict him, to say that I didn't make all that many sacrifices and anyway, he played a big part in keeping the relationship alive as well, but… I mean, it's not like I think I did _all_ the work, but I'm pretty sure that another woman – a cleverer woman – would have walked long ago. There were prices to pay to get us here and I paid more of them than he did. It's only right for him to acknowledge that.

"I'm glad we are here though. Are you?" Ken asks and it seems to be a genuine question, almost as if part of him thinks I might say no.

"Otherwise, I wouldn't be here," I reply simply. That's what it all boils down to, after all. If the joy of being with him didn't outweigh all the drawbacks, I wouldn't have stayed.

I feel Ken breathe in deeply, then slowly let go of the breath. The warm air makes my skin prickle.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you," he finally continues. "For putting up with everything. For putting up with me."

Turning around, I put a hand to his cheek and give him a soft kiss. "It has its good points," I assure him, smiling.

He returns the smile, but I can see there's something still on his mind, so I give him a gentle nudge. "Tell me."

Again, he takes a moment before he replies, "I feel we're in a very good place right now, aren't we?"

"Yes." I nod, still turned to face him. "I'd agree."

"Good." Brushing my hair to the side, he kisses my forehead. "We're in a good place – a great place, even – and there's no need to rush anything, but… I want you to know that for me, this is for keeps. There's a… a _weight_ to the future that I don't think we need, not right now when we're happy as we are, but when I _do_ look into the future, I see you and me. Not that I want to take that decision from you – and given all of my baggage, I know it's a huge decision – but, well, I love you and for me, this is it. You and me. Us."

I take a deep, deep breath.

It's not that his words surprise me, per se. If I didn't think our relationship was serious to him – or, indeed, if it wasn't serious to me – I wouldn't have seen any sense in staying in it and working at it for nearly four years. It's been a long time since he's given me any reason to doubt his commitment – not since February, to be honest – and I'd be lying if I pretended the future hasn't been on my mind as well, but… I guess he's never spelled it out this clearly before. He's _shown_ his love and his commitment, but he's not spoken about it like this before.

To his credit, Ken waits patiently as all those thoughts – and a hundred more – run through my mind, over and above each other, in all possible directions. It must be nerve-wrecking for him, but he doesn't say a word, simply rests his chin on my shoulder and waits for me to grapple with what he told me.

Before I answer, I turn around fully, so that I'm kneeling facing him. I want to look at him properly when I say my bit. His face, I can't help noticing, is very still, but there's a storm of emotions in his eyes.

"I… I can't say how happy this makes me," I tell him, speaking slowly to make sure everything comes out exactly right. "And I agree that there's no rush to change anything right now. Things are good and I don't think I'm ready for the whole royal hoopla yet, but… but yes, when I look into the future, I see the same thing. You and me."

If Ken sat almost unmoving before, he makes up for it now. Before I fully realise what is happening, he has pulled me towards him, one arm around my waist, the other hand cradling my face, and is kissing me with all the love and joy and passion that could possibly fit into a single kiss.

It's a long, long while before we finally part again and even then, we keep close, our foreheads touching.

"One day," Ken murmurs against my lips, "I will ask you to marry me, Rilla Blythe."

"One day," I whisper back, looking up at him with shining eyes, "I might just say yes."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Fields of Gold' (written_ _by Sting, released by him in 1993_ _)._


	71. May your heart always be joyful

_Norfolk, England  
August 2014_

 **May your heart always be joyful**

Sandringham House is seriously odd looking. It's a hodgepodge of a place that refuses to stick to any architectural style (it must give Teddy constant headaches) and truly defies description. My best attempt would be to say it looks like several vaguely Victorian-looking terraced houses knocked together by a not very talented builder – and even that's putting it kindly.

On the inside, the aim is cosiness and it does better in succeeding on that front. Where Osborne House is all exotic elegance, liberally borrowing from Indian designs (or what people in the mid-1800s thought was Indian), Sandringham has dark woods and thick carpets, squishy chairs and cosy fireplaces, random knickknacks and framed family photos. It's more of a country manor than a palace and I must admit it derives its own kind of charm from that.

The overall effect doesn't feel very summer-y and normally, the royal family doesn't decamp to Sandringham until autumn when it's hunting season in Norfolk, before they move further north to Balmoral for Christmas and New Year. This summer, however, Sandringham House is the setting for a very joyful event, which is why the entire royal family and a good chunk of the country's aristocracy descended on this rather sleepy corner of the country.

Thankfully, the weather has decided to be a game player and to not rain on everyone's parade. This, I was told, is not guaranteed in Norfolk, not even in August, so everyone greeted the sun with much relief this morning.

I, of course, agree with that assessment whole-heartedly. I've always been a summer creature and the English weather can be rather depressing. Plus, while I have a light coat to go with my patterned summer dress, I'd much rather not wear it and show off my Osborne tan. (I'm quite proud of it!)

My suede shoes also wouldn't have liked rain much, so in the interest of not getting them stained, I'm all for sun. With the weather being as agreeable as it is, the only other enemy we're fighting, the shoes and I, are the gravel paths laid out all around the house. (And this time, _house_ is quite an accurate description. _Big_ house, maybe, but certainly _house_. Sandringham doesn't look like a palace and certainly not like a castle.)

Carefully, I balance over the gravel in my thin, high heels, trying not to lose my balance. The last thing I need today is a twisted ankle (or a broken neck).

As I approach Sandringham's main portico, I become aware of an aqua-clad woman arguing with one of the guards there. Another ten steps closer and I realise the woman is Tatty, in full bridesmaids garb. The guard looks vaguely familiar as well, but I can't quite place him…

"You have to let me in!" Tatty insists.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but you're not on the list," the guard replies staunchly. And when I hear his voice, I'm thrown right back to an awful March day in New York, more than three years ago.

It's Sexy Eeyore as he lives and breathes! (Well, Pilkington, to be accurate, but where's the fun in that?)

"I was already in there today! I just left to catch some air and now I need to go back inside! I don't care about your stupid list!" Tatty protests and I have a distinct feeling she's only just keeping herself from stomping her foot.

"I apologise for any inconvenience, Miss, but I cannot allow anyone inside who's not on the list," Sexy Eeyore persists.

"I'm the Maid of Honour!" snaps Tatty. "I need to be with the bride!"

"That may well be, Miss," acknowledges Sexy Eeyore, "but if Her Royal Highness wanted you with her, she ought to have put you on the list."

Tatty looks like she's ready to bash his head in with her clutch. (And boy, do I know the feeling!) Sexy Eeyore juts his chin forward, clearly not ready to budge.

"Is there a problem?" I ask, approaching the two.

"Rilla!" cries Tatty in relief.

Sexy Eeyore turns and nods his head at me in greeting, but his eyes narrow when he recognises me. "Miss Blythe." (Looks like the dislike is mutual.)

"He won't let me inside!" Tatty complains, pointing her thumb at the guard in a very un-ladylike way. "Apparently, I was left off some effing list!"

"Which I'm sure was just a simple oversight," I remark calmly. To the Sexy Eeyore, I say, "She's with me."

He steps aside, clearing the way to the front door, but his eyes are shooting daggers. "Very well, Miss." The way he says them, it seems like he's almost chocking on the words.

Grabbing Tatty's arm, I drag her with me, lest she decide to use her clutch on Sexy Eeyore's head anyway. "Come on, Tat," I murmur.

Tatty looks over her shoulder to glare at him, but allows me to lead her inside the house. "I can't believe my name needs to be on a list for me to be allowed inside," she grumbles. "I went in and out Sandringham as I pleased when I was a child. No-one ever had to consult a _list_!"

"I'm sure it's just because they upped security measure for today," I soothe her. "And because you've been here so often, no-one thought to put your name on the list."

" _Yours_ is on it," Tatty points out, but there's no resentment to her words.

I shrug, feeling a little uncomfortable. "I think my name is on some kind of permanent list allowing me entry to all royal residence. I know I can take guests inside, at least."

Tatty whistles softly. "Is there any royal door that doesn't open for you, what do you think?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Her expression is pleased, even a bit proud, and I'm grateful for it. She could easily have gotten annoyed that despite her long history with the royal family, it's suddenly _me_ having to vouch for _her_. Instead, she looks like someone whose protégé has done a good job, thus repaying the trust put in them, and honestly? I'll take it.

"We-ell," I draw out the word, grinning, "I've yet to try the Jewel House in The Tower…"

Tatty laughs. "Drat! That's my cunning heist plans scuppered then."

"We'll think of something else," I joke, lightly elbowing her in a companionable way.

"We will," agrees Tatty brightly, linking her arm through mine and pulling me up the staircase.

She might have needed me to get past Sexy Eeyore, but inside the house, Tatty knows her way much better than I do, as I can admit without envy. I only arrived here three days ago and despite its comparably homey feel, Sandringham is still big enough to get lost in. I'm only starting to find my way around it, so I'm perfectly content to let Tatty take the lead.

She finally stops at a door and gives it a short knock. Without waiting for an answer, she wrenches it open and barges inside. "Sorry for taking so long! There was some idiot guard that wouldn't let me in. Rilla had to rescue me," she explains to the room's occupants.

I follow a little slower, only really daring to enter when Aunt Caroline waves me inside.

Aunt Caroline ( _Ken_ 's Aunt Caroline, that is) was the first wife of Uncle Al and is mother to Chris and Katie. She's a warm, capable, humorous, down-to-earth woman and how she could ever get married to Uncle Al is a mystery I've yet to solve. (And not just me. Persis even drew charts to visualise possible theories, but without much success.)

Closing the door behind me, I quickly look around the room. It's guest a bedroom, facing east to overlook the lake, and today, it doubles as Katie's bridal suite.

The bride herself stands in the middle of the room, arms outstretched, her mother and now Tatty bustling around her and fussing with the dress. It's a simple design, sleek and modern, without frills or ruffles, and with just minimal touches of lace.

Remaining otherwise still, she cranes her neck to look at me. "Is everything alright at the church?" she asks.

"Everything looks lovely," I confirm, moving into her line of sight and smiling reassuringly.

I've just been down to St Mary Magdalene Church, which is something like Sandringham's almost-private church (the royals like to have one at all their residences) and will play host to Katie and Adam's wedding in less than an hour.

"They said there were some issues with the flower delivery. Did those get resolved?" Katie wants to know, her eyes flickering nervously.

Behind her daughter's back, Aunt Caroline gives me a look that clearly requests me not to upset her.

Waiving a hand airily, I hurry to downplay any problems. "Some minor issues, yes, but nothing we couldn't deal with."

"Did the flowers get delivered or not?" Tatty asks, in her usual direct way. Aunt Caroline frowns at her.

"Strictly speaking…" I pause briefly. "Strictly speaking, they didn't get delivered _as such_ , but… we put up an alternative flower display and I promise it looks beautiful."

"An alternative flower display?" repeats Katie, her voice strangely high-pitched.

I nod, feeling a little uncomfortable. "Um, yes. We sent the gardeners to the walled garden and had them bring all the flowers in bloom down to the church," I quickly explain. "It's not what you had planned, but I think you'll like it. It looks like a summer meadow, all colourful and bright. It looks happy."

"Happy is good," chimes in Aunt Caroline cheerfully and pats her daughter's arm.

Tatty, meanwhile, considers me with interest. "So you're telling me you don't just have a virtual _access all areas_ -pass to this place, you can also have the gardeners cut off all the flowers?"

"I didn't do it myself!" I protest. "I might have _suggested_ it, but Leslie agreed, so technically, _she_ made the gardeners cut off all the flowers."

"On your advice," insists Tatty cheekily. I give her a dirty look.

"Whoever ordered anything, what matters is that the church is beautifully decorated with flowers," Aunt Caroline points out sensibly. "You have nothing to worry about, darling."

"Nothing at all!" I back her up, nodding my head decidedly and crossing my fingers behind my back.

What I choose not to relay is that we had to put up folding chairs to replace the church pew that spontaneously collapsed, had to draft in the organ player from the neighbouring church to replace the regular player who fell ill with food poisoning _and_ had to pry the hipflask from the hands of an already tipsy Duke of St Andrews (who is, if I'm not mistaken, the grandson of King Victor's younger son Francis and his wife, the erstwhile Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons).

There'd be no use in telling all of that to Katie though. For one, we have all those issues under control, so there's no need to upset the bride. For another, if I've learned one thing in my year of working in party planning, it's that no event (and certainly no wedding!) ever completely goes to plan. It's what you make of it and without wanting to brag, I've gotten pretty good at improvising.

Of course, I'm not here in a work capacity, but when Katie asked me to go down to the church and check whether things were going alright, I wasn't going to say no. When, once arrived, I found that things _weren't_ alright, I quickly found myself a clipboard and sketched alternative plans, which I then proceeded to put into action. I wasn't sure whether people would listen to my suggestions, but apparently, my virtual _access all areas_ -pass, as Tatty calls it, also means there are not many people in the royal employ who are ready to deny me. It's odd, but today, it definitely came in handy.

I feel Katie scrutinise my face, but manage to keep my expression as sincere and innocent as possible. It seems to reassure her, because she slowly nods, takes a deep breath and looks away again.

Aunt Caroline looks at me gratefully. I smile back. Tatty, passing by me, claps my back.

"You'll have a beautiful wedding, Kate," she tells Katie confidently. "I'm sure the church is beautiful and you look beautiful, too. Adam won't know what hit him."

Katie smiles nervously. Her mother laughs. "Chris checked in on him earlier," she tells us. "He's a nervous wreck, poor guy. His best man isn't feeling much better. I think the TV cameras are getting to him."

Katie is just a minor royal and the setting of St Mary Magdalene Church far less grand than previous royal wedding venues, but she's still a princess of the blood (as they say) and the press is most definitely covering her nuptials. The ceremony won't be televised at Katie's request, but there's a press pen set up outside the church and all major outlets have sent representatives. I had to duck past them several times already and they never grew tired of snapping and filming me. (I mean, when do they ever?)

"Both groom and best man are a bit nervous, but Chris, Ken and Teddy are doing their best keep to them calm," I remark. "I don't think there will be any issues."

Tatty laughs. "You've got it all under control, don't you?"

"I'm just keeping an eye on things for Katie," I reply modestly. "We all want her to have the most beautiful wedding possible, don't we?"

"We do," agrees Aunt Caroline kindly and squeezes her daughter's arm.

It's not just lip service either. Katie is such a nice person that she deserves the best wedding and if I can help her, I'll gladly do it. Me having some experience in event planning definitely comes in handy and since I'm not in the wedding party, I don't have any formal role to prepare for. (Kate offered me bridesmaid-ship, which made me feel really honoured, but I knew immediately that if I accepted, there would be far too much focus on me, despite it being her big day. When I explained, she was very understanding, so I'm just a simple guest, which is exactly how I want it.)

"Thank you! All of you, just… thank you" Katie looks truly touched. There might even be tears brimming in her eyes, which is very unusual for otherwise calm and practical Katie. But I guess on their wedding day, everyone is more emotional than usual.

"Aw!" Tatty smiles widely at her. "You're sweet. But Rilla is right. You deserve the very best wedding."

She grabs my hand and pulls me towards Katie, then throws her arms around both of us. It results in a group hug that Aunt Caroline joins laughingly and if she wasn't already ruining her make-up before, Katie is certainly doing so now. I am, therefore, quickly drafted into repairing what I can, which takes a little longer than it should, seeing as there are new tears spilling several times. I do manage to get Katie's face touched up with waterproof make-up, but cut it rather close to the ceremony as a result, arriving just moments before the Rolls-Royce of the actual bridal party rolls up.

Mark, my date for today (given that Teddy and Ken are joining Chris as ushers and Persis is sharing bridesmaid-ing duties with Katie's half-sister Ashley), waits for me outside the church, clearly amused at me rushing towards him at the last minute. (The press people also seem to love it, snapping away wildly.) He offers me his arm and we quickly duck into the church, just making it to our seats before the arrival of the bride is announced and the ceremony begins.

And it's a beautiful ceremony, just as Katie deserves. She's clearly deliriously happy and Adam is slightly dazed just from looking at her, which is as it should be. Everyone is delighted for them and their love, filling the entire church with joy.

(Plus, if I may say so myself, the flower decorations look pretty amazing.)

The day continues as beautifully as the ceremony was, with everyone decamping from the church to the extensive lawns around Sandringham House for a standing reception, which will later be followed by a sit-down dinner and dancing for a selected group of guests. The sun is still shining brightly from the sky, while a breeze coming from the sea keeps it from getting too warm. It is, in short, a perfect day.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" asks Ken as he appears at my side and slips an arm around my waist.

"Very much. It's a lovely wedding," I reply, leaning into him and accepting a brief kiss.

Ken raises a hand to adjust my fascinator slightly. (A fascinator, as I've learned, is a feather-y, swirl-y thing that pretends to be a hat but really isn't. It perches precariously on one's forehead and really serves no purpose at all.)

"Did Mark look after you?" Ken wants to know, glancing around as if in search of his friend.

"He did," I confirm. "It was most agreeable."

"Good." Ken smiles.

" _Not_ ," I continue pointedly, "that I need looking after, of course."

I can see Ken hesitate as he tries to gauge my mood. I keep my face neutral, so for a moment, he's clearly unsure whether I'm joking or not. It's only when I break cover and grin up at him that he truly relaxes again.

"It's okay," I assure him, patting his arm. "I appreciate the sentiment of making sure I'm not on my own. And with both our partners in the bridal party, it made sense for Mark and me to stick together."

"Partners?" Ken parrots, looking seriously confused.

"Well, _sort of_ -partners, I guess," I amend my previous statement.

" _Sort of-partners_?" he repeats, now also mildly indignant.

"Not _you_!" I placate and rub his arm. "We're more than sort of-partners."

Ken frowns. "I should hope so," he mutters.

After the sort of-promise we made each other earlier this month, I had hoped that went without saying.

"When I said _sort of-partners_ , I meant those two," I clarify, pointing towards the open bar on the side of the lawn.

Ken peers in the direction I indicated, but doesn't look any wiser. "Who?"

"Tatty and Mark?" I reply, phrasing my sentences as a question, to make clear that I consider him to be rather dumb for not getting it.

"Tatty and _Mark_?" Ken echoes, his tone one of utter incredulity.

I sigh heavily. "Yes," I confirm, "Tatty and Mark."

"But… but…" splutters Ken. "But…"

I reach up to put a hand on his forehead. "Are you stuck?" I ask, feigning concern, but doing little to hide my grin.

" _But_!" protests Ken, apparently robbed of all other words.

"You really didn't know that?" I want to know, somewhat fascinated by this turn of events.

Tatty and Mark are maybe his two best friends. How could he have _not_ known?

Ken opens his mouth, looks at me with a somewhat miserable expression, then closes it again. I do have a feeling this is too much for him to wrap his mind around.

(Which I understand, don't get me wrong. When I first heard about Di and Nia having met at some science conference for clever people and having subsequently fallen for each other, I felt much the same way. I mean, I fully support it and wish them all the best, but it was a bit… weird. In a way, it still is.)

"They're just sort of-partners," I explain, trying to sooth Ken. "Friends with benefits? Something like that."

Instead of replying, Ken looks from me to his friends, back to me and finally settles on staring at them in a rather obvious way. "How could I have not known this?" he murmurs.

The answer would be, of course, 'you were gone', but it seems an unkind thing to say.

I'm still trying to come up with a reply, when Ken turns back to me. "I was gone for too long, wasn't I?"

Well, if _that_ isn't a pleasing degree of self-awareness…

"I won't deny that," I tell him. To soften the blow, I add, "In fairness, I think they were 'off' for a while. They just rekindled their… their _thing_ very recently after Mark broke up with that blonde."

"But still!" Ken protests. (It's a very me thing to say and I'm a little amused at having rubbed off on him.) "They're my friends. I should have known this."

"Probably, yes." I shrug. (After all, this is not my battle to fight.) "But I guess since it's just a _sort of_ -thing, they didn't see much sense in telling."

"Y _ou_ know!" Ken insists.

I pat his hand in the way you would to someone who's a little slow and only just now cottoning on to the fact that the sky is blue. (The little Jake in my head pipes up to inform me that the sky is not, in fact, blue. I nudge him aside.)

"We're women, my darling," I inform Ken. "We tell each other things."

That seems to give Ken something else to consider, because now he's staring at me. "How many… things?" he asks hesitatingly.

"More than you'd be comfortable with knowing," I reply, not missing a beat. "Or telling."

He swallows and I know he's trying to decide whether he wants to find out what we women tell each other or whether he's happier with not knowing. (I vote the latter.)

Looking back over my shoulder, I see that Tatty and Mark have left the bar and are approaching us. Ken notices as well and takes a long sip from his drink.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Tatty cheerfully informs him when she's within earshot.

"I… I…" Ken stutters, before raising his glass again – and chocking on whatever is in there.

Rolling my eyes, I clap his back as he coughs.

Tatty look from me to him in confusion, then starts laughing. "Oh! Rilla told you!"

"It does look like it," confirms Mark, quieter, but also amused.

"I didn't _mean_ to," I defend myself, still clapping the back of a coughing Ken. "I thought he _knew_."

Tatty shakes her head. "Nah. How would he have known?"

"Not from you," Ken forces out between coughs.

"There's nothing much to tell," Mark replies. "It's an occasional thing. We're both single, we enjoy spending time together, so…" He trails off.

"We occasionally help each other scratch an itch," finishes Tatty brightly.

Ken is immediately overcome by another coughing fit.

Tatty sighs in a long-suffering way and throws me a sympathetic look. I smile back wryly, now rubbing Ken's back seeing as clapping doesn't seem to be have done much good.

"And since we're speaking of scratching an itch," Tatty turns to me and grins. "Did you hear that your Mexico fling is rumoured to be lined up for _I'm a Celebrity_?"

"Tat," Mark says quietly. Ken coughs more heavily and gestures to communicate something neither of us understands.

I shake my head and smile to tell both of them that it's fine. There aren't many people allowed to tease me about this chapter of my life, but Tatty is among them. After all, we're women and we tell each other things.

(On the whole, I've sort of made an uneasy peace with the whole Chad thing. I mean, I _still_ want the floor to swallow me up whenever his name is mentioned, but that's mostly out of embarrassment that I ever slept with that man. The painful, awful feeling of the winter, when he first appeared, has mostly passed.)

"Did he get eliminated from _Big Brother_ already?" I ask Tatty, looking her straight in the eye to show her that I refuse to be teased.

"Oh, long ago," she answers, waving her hand in a throw-away motion. "He did well in the beginning. Looked good in the hot tub, hooked up with another contestant… made for good TV. About one third into it, he revealed himself to be rather too much in love with himself though and was voted off. A week later, he went crying to the Daily Mail about how he was unfairly treated."

"Yes," I sigh. "That sounds like him alright. And like the Daily Mail, too."

"Speaking of which," begins Mark, clearly wanting to change the subject, "Ken told me you're pursuing a law suit because of that article earlier this month?"

It's not exactly the subject I would have chosen, but it's better than Chad. Pretty much anything is better than Chad.

"Yes, Teddy and I are suing the photographer and the paper because of those pictures," I explain to Mark. "They were – how did that lawyer put it? – _not legally obtained_."

Ken, whose coughing has quieted down, draws me a little closer to him and kisses my temple. I give him a grateful smile.

"It's good that you're doing this," Mark tells me.

"Yes," agrees Tatty firmly. "About time someone shows them there are boundaries."

"We hope it will make them respect those boundaries, too," I reply. "Whether they actually will…" I shrug. I'm not sure how hopeful I should be.

"Fingers crossed!" Tatty raises one hand, her index and middle finger crossed, while nudging Mark with her elbow until he does the same.

Their support draws a smile from me. "Thank you. It really means –"

I don't get any further however, because in that moment, Persis barrels towards us, with absolutely no concern for her expensive bridesmaid dress and her light suede heels. Trying to stop, she almost loses her balance and needs to be caught by a quick-thinking Mark.

"Thanks," she says absent-mindedly in his direction. Then, looking at Ken and me with shining eyes, she exclaims, "You won't believe it! I just got the most amazing news!"

"What kind of news?" I ask, laughing softly at her enthusiasm. Ken grins and shakes his head.

A beaming smile blossoms on Persis face. "It's the WEG later this month, remember? Well, one of the other riders just learned she's pregnant and the other's horse is lame, so they're calling up the alternative and that's me! _Me_! I'm going to the World Equestrian Games!"

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Forever Young' (written_ _by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1979_ _)._

* * *

 **A/N:**  
 **I've thought about whether to let reality bleed into this story by acknowledging it via an author's note, but I guess this particular reality is so big that it slowly takes over everything anyway, so here we go. I really just wanted to say that wherever you are, I hope you and your loved ones are well, both physically and emotionally. Someone said to me recently how hard it is to live through history and I guess we're all seeing now how true that is. I have nothing uplifting to say except to note that "this, too, shall pass" - simply because it has to.  
I've also noticed an uptick in readership in recent weeks, and want to say that I hope my story is providing even the little-ist bit of distractions in these times when distractions are hard won. Plus, if you like to, I'd love to be in touch, so please don't be shy. One of the true wonders of fanfiction is how it connects people all over the world and that's even more needed right now, when a lot of people are feeling a little uncertain and lonely. So, whether long-time reader, new reader or returning reader, do drop me a line if you like. I promise I don't bite - though I might chew your ear off sometimes :).**

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:  
Thank you so much for saying that! There was a time when I wondered whether this story held any interest for people at the moment or whether they'd find it silly and trite in light of all that is happening in the world. In the end, I realised that writing was helping me escape the uncertainty of reality a bit, so I kept on doing it just because of that. But if my story is also proving to be a small respite for others, that makes the writing even more worthwhile.  
Rilla is a 'lily of the field' in any time, I think ;). She enjoys the finer things in life and she likes a bit of luxury, so to have someone sail her around while she gets a nice tan is definitely her idea of a day well spent. And yes, she is interested in clothing, both hers and that of others, simply because she like pretty things (and enjoys gossiping about the non-pretty clothes others might wear). I _do _usually try to convey something when I describe a character's clothes, and I'm glad that's working and translating to page as intended. Leslie wearing rubies is indeed an update of her "touch of crimson" of canon, just upped in luxury to befit a Queen.  
As for the royals, my reasoning is that they're normal people in extraordinary circumstances. They experience triumphs and trials like other people, just that theirs might be a bit (or a lot) different at times. They're still humans and they make mistakes, but they also have hopes and wishes and try to make them come true. Here, it's the hope to repair the family bonds. What they weren't able to do on their own, Rilla is definitely helping them with, because as you said, she's bridging the gap between them. Which is why it's a good thing she and Ken agreed on a shared future, because she's really making his life better than it was before!  
I think there are restrictions to royal travel, but I don't know how strictly they're enforced. William definitely travels with his children, Harry travels with Archie and I think Charles travelled with both his sons when they were younger. I do think they try to keep the direct heirs separate, so I can't see Charles and William getting on a plane together, much less together with Harry or the various children (I mean, no-one wants Uncle Andrew on the throne any more than Uncle Al...). In my universe, I think that Owen, Ken and Teddy generally fly separately and don't all get into the same car, but with the sailing, the reasoning was that there was the support ship close by to fish them from the sea should anything happen. Persis is a rung lower in the line of succession than Teddy, so restrictions placed on her are less strict. (Teddy is older than Persis, so would always be above her in succession. I do also believe these royals still have male primogeniture though, seeing as they had no reason to change that in over a century, but that Rilla will have a thing or two to say about that in the future.)  
_ _Oh, and thank you also for your lovely long review on my little one-shot. It having no follow-up chapter, I can't answer you there and I don't want to go into too much detail here to keep it from getting too confusing, but it was a wonderful review full of interesting thoughts and insight and I'm very grateful that you took the time to write it. (As, indeed, I'm_ always _grateful for your reviews and feel happy whenever one pops up in my inbox.) Like you said, we can only hope that one say soon, we can look at this story and just see it as a bit of historical fiction about an event long ago and not as a scary reflection of our own times.  
Lastly, but most importantly, I hope you and yours are healthy and well, and that you're keeping your head up in this trying times. I'm sending you lots of strength and good wishes. Take care and stay safe!  
P.S. I was very happy to receive the email alert for your review for chapter 67 - only to then discover that the site glitch means it's not showing up yet. It's a recurring bug and the review will appear when it's fixed, but it unfortunately means I can't reply to it just now. Depending on when it shows up in full, I will either extend this review (even further...) or reply to it next week.  
_


	72. Most of the sour grapes are gone

_Caen, France  
August 2014_

 **Most of the sour grapes are gone**

"But I want to ride!" whines Persis and tries to get up from the gurney.

Leslie pushes her back down with more decisiveness than you'd expect from her. "Absolutely not!"

"I'm feeling fine!" insists Persis through sniffles, sitting back up and folding her arms in front of her chest. "See? I can sit!"

"Sitting up isn't quite the same as riding over a whole obstacle course," reasons Leslie. (She's got a point, too, though I'd never admit that to Persis.)

Persis pouts. "Alix will be doing most of the work. I just have to sit and show her the way."

"You fainted on us half an hour ago," Leslie reminds her. "What if you faint again while riding Alix and fall off?"

Persis shakes her head, trying to hide her sniffles. "I'd never fall off Alix! She looks after me!"

"I hardly see how that is possible," Leslie replies coolly. "Alix is a horse and if you faint, there's preciously little she can do."

She looks at her daughter and there's something steely in her expression that instinctively makes me draw my shoulders up and take a step closer to Ken. Persis, however, is not so easily cowed. She pushes her chin forward and meets her mother's gaze – or would, if she weren't overcome by a coughing fit in that very moment. Leslie clucks her tongue as if to say that this proves her very point.

"It's just a stupid cold!" argues Persis, once the coughs have subsided. "These are the World Equestrian Games. I _have_ to ride!"

"I fail to see why you have to do anything," counters Leslie.

Persis swings her legs down from the gurney, letting them dangle in the air, and looks at her mother imploringly. "We're sitting in second place and are still within striking distance of the Germans. We're almost guaranteed a medal and we could still win this!" she insists. "But after… after what happened with Wild Lone, we're down to three pairs. If I back out now, the entire team gets disqualified and we get nothing!"

I'm reasonably sure Leslie knows all of this. I'm _also_ reasonably sure she couldn't care less.

"You're not risking your life over this," she tells Persis and her tone doesn't invite any further protest.

Persis tries anyway. "But –"

She gets no further, because in that very second, the entrance to the first aid tent flutters open and Susan Baker charges in with a loud, "No _buts_ , Miss Persis!"

Susan Baker is the now retired long-time nanny of Persis and Teddy. She's practical, forceful and, to be honest, a hoot. Having met her, I have little doubt that the somewhat stable childhood of Ken's siblings was in a large part down to her. She still cares deeply about her former charges, too, and, refusing to miss this highpoint in Persis's riding career, has been cheering her along all weekend.

Now though, there's not much cheerfulness about Miss Baker. Instead, she looks like a woman on a mission, her expression matching Leslie's. (Next to me, I notice Teddy ducking his head, even though neither mother nor former nanny are even looking in his direction.)

"Listen to your mother," Miss Baker tells Persis sternly.

Persis juts her chin forward. (The effect is somewhat ruined by her having to wipe her nose on the back of her hand mere seconds later.)

"I'm an adult!" she insists. "I can make my own decisions!"

Beside me, Ken leans down somewhat and mutters, "She's not exactly helping her own case by being so petulant."

Well, no. She is acting a bit childishly, even if I must admit to seeing her point as well, at least in parts. It must be frustrating to see a probable world championship medal slip through your fingers just because of a cold. And after what happened to her teammate's horse…

"Kenneth." Leslie has turned to look at us, apparently alerted by Ken's mutterings. "Would you mind coming over here for a moment?" She doesn't wait for a reply, just turns forward to face Persis again.

Ken grimaces, looking pained. "Why me?" he murmurs, barely audible.

"Dad's not here," answers Teddy, equally quiet. "You're the next best thing."

Owen, it must be explained, is absent in order to prevent a constitutional crisis. Apparently, whenever he leaves the UK, he has have two Counsellors of State stand in for him. Eligible for that position are the monarch's spouse and the first four people in line of succession who are over the age of 21, which means that with the exception of Uncle Al, all potential counsellors are currently in this draughty first aid tent. Had Owen come to France as well, that would have left the country in Uncle Al's hand, which would have been ill-advised, even if it had not also been illegal. I know both Ken and Teddy offered to stay behind so Owen could go, but in the end, he decided to stick around in London to rule his own country, promising to watch the tournament on TV.

His absence means that Ken is indeed the next best thing, so he reluctantly walks towards the gurney. He wouldn't deny his mother's wish, but his every fibre resists getting involved in that argument and I can't blame him. He can only lose this, no matter what he does.

Teddy smiles wryly, clearly sympathising with his brother. Raising his eyebrows questioningly, he silently asks me whether we should go with Ken to support him. I nod, so we both make our way to where the others are grouped around Persis.

"– go back to your hotel and I will make you a hot milk with honey," Miss Baker is currently suggesting, evidently trying to sooth Persis.

Not that Persis looks particularly taken by the idea. She pushes her lower lip forward and looks all set to say something especially petulant, when her gaze lands on me and her face suddenly lights up. "Rilla!" she exclaims.

I desperately try to make myself invisible (I am no more inclined to get involved in that discussion than Ken is), but to no avail.

"You must go to Molly and help her with Alix," Persis continues. "You need to warm her up for me, so that when I'm out of here, she's ready to compete."

Immediately, both Leslie and Miss Baker swivel around to look at me. To say that neither is pleased with Persis's suggestion would be… an understatement. A severe one.

I feel myself shrink under their warning glances and am grateful when Ken steps in front of me and draws attention to himself. "It won't hurt for Rilla and Teddy to go check on the horse," he remarks smoothly. "Just to make sure Alix is well after yesterday."

"Sure, we can do that," Teddy confirms quickly. "Right, Rilla?"

"Um, yes. Of course." I nod, before daring a look over Ken's shoulder at the three women gathered by the gurney. Miss Baker has narrowed her eyes in warning. Leslie looks mostly resigned, keeping her gaze lowered. Persis's eyes bore into mine, her expression beseeching, as she's trying to silently communicate me all sorts of things, only half of which I can decipher.

I don't get much of a chance to make progress either, because Teddy tugs at the sleeve of my jacket and jerks his head towards the flapping tent door. Obviously, he's eager to get out of here as soon as possible, even if it means getting close to a horse. (He hasn't said so, but I think Teddy has… a strong respect when it comes to horses.)

Ken gives me a gentle push, his hand warm on my back, and with a parting nod at the three women, I find myself being propelled out of the war zone. (Sorry. Tent.) As I stumble through the tent's exit, I hear Teddy breathe an audible sigh of relief.

"I'm not sorry to be out of there," he declares once we're out of earshot. "Even though Ken's excuse was weak. That horse will be perfectly fine."

"Yes," I agree. "She will be."

Yesterday's cross-country course was trying for horses and riders, with conditions being less than ideal after weeks of heavy rain, and even saw the horse of one of Persis's teammates collapse dead afterwards. (Though they say it's premature to assume there's a causal connection, it's hard to imagine it being completely coincidental.) Alix, however, is tough as nails and it only needed one look at the cross-country course to realise why the British eventing trainer nominated Alix as Persis's equine partner over Tommy, who's the better all-around tournament horse.

It might be surprising to the casual spectator, but most eventing competition are won and lost during dressage right at the beginning. (It appears to be the German team's standing modus operandi, to pull ahead early with clean dressage rounds and keep hold of said lead during the cross-country and the jumping phases.) It goes so far that, no matter how good a jumper your horse is, if you can't get a decent result in the dressage part of the competition, you never even get close enough to smell the medal ranks.

Therefore, under normal conditions, it would have made more sense for Persis to bring Tommy, who's a superior dressage horse compared to Alix, and thus would have likely gotten the better result in the overall competition. He is, however, also more prone to injury and more susceptible to outside influences, which is absolutely not true for Alix.

Being small, wiry and temperamental, she lacks both the patience and the stature for getting top marks in dressage, but she's unbeatable in the cross-country part. She's a sure-footed as a mountain goat and her jumping skills put a flea circus to shame. They see her taking obstacles higher and wider than herself, on any ground, in any weather. She doesn't falter, doesn't tire and is afraid of nothing. Given how difficult the cross-country course was, Alix was definitely the best choice to get Persis safely from start to finish.

They both did really well yesterday (and even put in a decent show in dressage the day before) and now a common cold is set to ruin their chances at a medal. I can see why it's so frustrating for Persis, even as I also understand Leslie's point. It was pretty scary to see her just faint and collapse without warning! Ken barely had time to catch her before she hit her head on something.

"Who do you think will win?" I ask Teddy as we walk to the area where the horses are stabled, alluding not the equestrian competition but the argument going on in the first aid tent.

Teddy inclines his head thoughtfully. "Persis is darn stubborn, but Mum has an iron will if she feels it's needed. I honestly can't call it."

"It would be easier if the British team wouldn't get disqualified for having too few riders if Persis withdraws," I muse. "She can't get a podium finish as an individual rider anymore, but that team medal is a very real possibility."

(Despite her good showing so far, Persis is currently only sitting in 15th place in the individual competition, which means that a lot of people would have to have really disastrous rounds today for her to have a shot at the medals. As the show jumping part is rarely the deciding factor in an eventing tournament, that's not looking likely.)

"I think if that horse hadn't collapsed, they wouldn't be having that discussion in there at all," remarks Teddy and points his thumb at the tent somewhere behind us. "Part of why she's so hell-bent on competing is because she doesn't want it to have been for nothing. She doesn't want that team medal for herself, or at least not primarily."

I nod slowly, pondering his words. They make a lot of sense, really. Persis might also want to have a medal for herself, but even more so, she wants it for her teammate who lost his horse yesterday.

"I imagine it also feels like she's fluking, given that it needed the death of his horse for him to pull out, while she's being bowled out by a simple cold," I remark pensively. "I think it makes her feel weak."

"Very possibly," agrees Teddy, which means that I hit the nail on the head. After all, I'm pretty sure that there's no person on this earth who knows Persis better than Teddy – and vice versa.

We've reached the stable area, our accreditation as part of Persis's team letting us through the checkpoint, and I guide Teddy towards where Alix is stabled. Molly, her groom, already has her saddled and prepared for competition. When she (Molly, that is) sees us, she inclines her head quizzically.

"Where's Persis?" she wants to know. "She asked me to have Alix ready fifteen minutes ago."

"Persis was… held up," I answer, not sure how comfortable Persis would be with anyone, even Molly, knowing about her moment of weakness.

Molly frowns for a moment, but then shrugs and nods. "Well, Alix is ready for her." She indicates the mare standing next to her.

"Persis wants us to warm her up," I tell her, reaching out to stroke Alix's nose.

"That'd be your job," replies Molly cheerfully. "There's no chance in hell of me getting on her."

I swallow, eyeing the horse with trepidation. Me riding her was… not part of the plan.

"You know her much better," I point out, trying to sway Molly.

But she just laughs and hands me a riding helmet. "I'm the groom and she's groomed to perfection. My job here is done."

Ah, drat.

"Why does no-one want to ride her?" asks Teddy. "She looks very peaceful."

She does, indeed. Standing next to her stable, Alix slowly munches on some hay, observing us humans dispassionately.

"She's peaceful _now_ ," explains Molly. "Handling her is super easy. It's when she sees an obstacle that she wakes up. There's no holding her back when there's something to jump over."

Having been coerced into riding Alix a handful of times, I know this to be true. I also know for a fact that I don't want to ride her here, where there's an audience. I can only end up embarrassing myself.

But Molly is still holding out the helmet for me to take and Teddy has procured a protective vest that he now offers me as well. "Better take this one, then."

Double drat.

Taking a deep breath, I take both helmet and vest, before turning to Alix. She looks at me with an unimpressed expression.

She lets me get in the saddle without a fuss, but just as predicted, she wakes up when we enter the warm-up area where they have a few obstacles prepared for practice. Upon seeing them, a ripple goes through Alix and she raises her head, pricking her ears in anticipation.

I hold the reins tighter and close my knees for a better grip. (I'm wearing normal jeans and they make the saddle feel awfully slippery.) This can only go wrong.

Trying to keep Alix walking slowly, I steer well clear of the obstacles, but she keeps pushing in their direction, pulling at the reins and shaking her head impatiently. It's only a question of time before she disregards my feeble commands and takes matters into her own hand.

I sigh, unsure whether to pray for luck or courage or, preferably, both.

"Your horse is a bit of a hothead, _non_?" comments a voice to my right. A voice with a distinct French accent.

I freeze.

I know that voice. Even after so many years, I still know that voice.

With a jerk, I bring Alix to a halt. She stomps her feet in annoyance and chomps on the bit.

Turning my head slowly, I look down at the smiling face of Alain de la Buyére. The man who, almost seven years ago, broke my heart.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt out without thinking.

"I know someone who owns a share in one of the horses on the French team," he answers, shrugging modestly and placing his elbows on top of the fence separating us.

I find myself nodding. With Alain, it was always about who he knew – and he knew very many people. (Very many women, especially.)

"And you're warming up the princess's horse," he observes. "Is she feeling better?"

How does he _know_ that?

I frown at him and he grins, as if reading my thoughts. (I'd forgotten how annoying it is when he does that.)

Alix jerks her head forward, trying to make me loosen my hold in the reins. I just grip them tighter.

When I look back at Alain, I find him watching something behind me. Turning quickly, I just see Teddy retreating, followed at a discreet pace by his two PPOs. (Dawson, the new PPO on Ken's team, is still loitering around near the riding area. Looks like he's on Rilla duty for the day.)

"Where's he going?" asks Alain curiously.

"To get his brother," I answer without thinking. Seconds later, I bite my tongue. Because while I'm certain that Teddy is indeed going to get Ken (which means he must have recognised Alain, which in turns means he must have seen that TV special about my ex-boyfriends), it sounds stupid, said out loud.

Alain, accordingly, grins at me. "Am I so scary that you need your prince to protect you?"

"Hardly," I scoff. Alix tosses her head.

"Even better," remarks Alain, still sounding amused. "I'm pleased you're talking to me at all. You left in a hot fury when we last saw each other."

"That was many years ago," I reply dismissively. (I honestly don't much care for the reminder.)

Alain nods thoughtfully. "Many years," he repeats. "I always regretted how things ended between us."

"You mean you regretted that you slept with that Thérèse?" I supply coolly, raising an eyebrow.

"No, not that," Alain counters. "But I am sorry I didn't take more care to ensure that we were both on the same page about our arrangement."

 _Arrangement_?

That's such a maddeningly French thing to say.

"I was just eighteen and you were only the second man I –" Breaking off, I instead making an impatient motion with my hand. (Alix shakes her head in protest at the ensuring jerk on the reins.) "Wasn't that a clue?"

"I imagine it should have been," agrees Alain. "But you were sweet and pretty and I suppose I didn't want to think too hard about it."

So, he preferred to just break my heart. Lovely.

I glare at him, poised to allow an impatient Alix to start moving again, when Alain adds, "In the end, matters turned out for the best for you, however. You did well for yourself."

"If you are suggesting that –" I begin, feeling indignation rise within me.

Alain interrupts me with a laugh. "The only thing I am suggesting is that your prince is very taken with you."

Hmpf.

I don't have an argument against that and I find that to be vexing.

"I think he and I are not unlike each other in some ways," Alain continues. His face is thoughtful, even serious, but there's a distinct sparkle of mirth in his eyes. (Seeing it, I almost forgive my 18 year old self for falling for him. _Almost_.)

"Are you saying I have a type?" I ask archly, holding his gaze even when Alix prances to the side a little.

"I'm saying we're similar enough that you should believe me when I say the man adores you," Alain corrects, now grinning outright.

I eye him sceptically. When did he become _nice_?

"You didn't adore me," I point out.

Alain inclines his head. "I liked you more than you would believe or than I was willing to admit." He raises both eyebrows, his expression amused. "But now that we're both older and wiser – who knows how things would have played out if we had met later?"

Now I'm the one laughing. "Not a chance in hell!"

To his credit, Alain smiles at this, but before he gets a chance to reply, I feel the presence of someone else at my other side. Even before turning my head, I know it to be Ken.

"Rilla," he says quietly. He's looking past Alix at Alain, but at the same time raising a hand to place it on my knee.

With a quick pull at the rains, I make Alix take a step back, causing Ken's hand to settle on her flank instead. Feeling the fur beneath his fingers, he looks up at me. When I raise an eyebrow meaningfully at such caveman-like behaviour, he, understanding, smiles faintly and lowers his head, shaking it slightly.

"How's Persis?" I ask, purposefully ignoring Alain.

"Still bent on riding," answers Ken (his eyes, I notice, repeatedly flit over to the other man). "She keeps jabbering about someone named Winkler and how he had it worse. She also assured us Alix was at least as good as Halla, whoever Halla is."

"A mare," supplies Alain casually. "Winkler was a German rider. He won an Olympic title after having torn a muscle. Halla, his horse, carried him over all the obstacles with minimal help."

"Trust Persis to take him as an example," I murmur. Ken smiles wryly.

Alain, meanwhile, leans over the fence and extends a hand towards Ken. (Alix, bless her, snaps at him and I briefly debate not pulling her head back, but then do it anyway.)

"Alain de la Buyère," Alain introduces himself. "And I know who you are."

I notice Ken hesitating briefly, but then his manners win out and he grabs Alain's hand to shake it with perhaps a tad more force than necessary. I roll my eyes. Alix snorts and I can't disagree.

"Rilla was just telling me she and I wouldn't have worked out," Alain adds casually. "I believe she said there was _not a chance in hell_."

Ken looks from him to me and back to him. "Do I want to know what brought on that specific conversation?" he asks. He looks a little bemused, but I think I can see the corners of his mouth moving upwards slightly, possibly because of the sheer absurdity of the conversation.

"Not particularly," I tell him blithely.

He holds my gaze for a moment, before a smile spreads over his face. I nod approvingly. This is more like it.

Turning back to Alain, Ken asks, rather pleasantly, "How can we help you?"

"You can send me an invite to the wedding, when it happens," answers Alain without missing a beat. "I've always liked a good party."

Why that little…!

Gnashing my teeth, I narrow my eyes at him until they're little more than slits. Alain just laughs. (I'm so busy glaring at him that I can't see what Ken thinking.)

"Make sure he treats you better," Alain continues nonchalantly, not in the slightest bit impressed by my glare. (I wonder if he meant to say 'better than me', but I won't give him the satisfaction of asking.)

"If I wanted your advice, I would have told you so," I instead tell him haughtily.

But Alain just grins and when I peer over at Ken out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he, too, looks distinctly amused. Traitor!

I don't get much of a chance to glare at Ken though, because Alain choses that moment to ask, "Do you intend to ride that horse at all?" He reaches over the fence to pat Alix. When she snaps in his direction once more, I do nothing to prevent it and he has to quickly pull his hand back. It makes me feel a brief flicker of grim satisfaction.

Looking questioningly at Ken, I see him shrug. "I think you better start warming her up. There's still a chance Persis finds a way to compete."

Immediately, I tense up and grimace. "She's pretty spirited today. I'm not sure I can handle her over obstacles." Plus, I'm too chicken to jump over those obstacles in the first place. They're high and I never particularly enjoyed jumping.

"You just have to watch your hands," chimes in Alain.

I give him an irritated look (what did I tell him about unsolicited advice?), but on my other side, Ken actually choses to _agree_ with him. "He's right. You tend to raise your hands too high, which means you lose leverage, making it easier for her to ignore you. Keep your hands low and apply constant pressure and you will be fine."

Are they _ganging_ _up_ on me?

"I'll lower those obstacles for you," announces Alain, already climbing through the fence and jogging over to one of the practice obstacles in the middle of the riding area. (How does he even know they're too high for me?)

I turn to Ken and growl, "You are not supposed to _agree_ with him!"

Ken shrugs and grins. "He's not wrong."

As if that is even relevant!

Looking after a retreating Alain, then back down at Ken, I remark, "He said you and he were somewhat alike. I think he has a point." I try to make it sound cutting, but don't fully succeed.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" Ken wants to know, his expression amused.

"Maybe a bit of both," I concede, feeling myself smile despite myself.

Ken laughs. When he reaches out to touch my knee again, I don't prevent it and even Alix stands still.

"How was it, meeting him?" Ken asks after a moment, now more serious.

I incline my head, considering his question. "I thought it would hurt," I answer slowly. "I was so hurt when we parted that I thought there'd still be some residual pain, but… there really isn't. I can see why my younger self was so charmed by him, but honestly, I mostly just wanted to bash his head in just now. He's aggravating."

"I will ignore the fact that you just called us similar and instead focus on you wanting to cause him physical pain, alright?" Ken jokes.

"You do that," I agree, smiling. The slight tenseness I felt since recognising Alain leaves my shoulders and I feel myself relax.

It only lasts for a second though, because when I look back at Alain, I see him working on one of the obstacle, despite the protest of another rider who apparently just wanted to jump over it. Struggling somewhat with the heavy wooden pole, Alain raises a hand and waves Ken over for help.

I swallow heavily.

"Come one", encourages Ken, sensing my trepidation. "You can do it. I know you can. Just remember to keep your hands low and apply pressure with your knees and you'll be fine."

"I'm not sure…" I eye the obstacle Alain is working on reluctantly. Alix, feeling my attention shift, starts pulling towards them and I struggle to keep her still. "If I do it and break my neck, I'll blame you," I inform Ken.

"That's okay. You may do that" he replies, smiling now. "But look it as this way: You faced the Frenchman and you came out fine. This is peanuts." He reaches up to squeeze my arm, before setting off to help Alain with the obstacles.

He… he's right, isn't he? If I can face Alain, what are an overeager horse and some obstacles in comparison? Peanuts, that's what.

Watching the two of them work together to lower the obstacle, I take a deep breath and tighten the reins, before I applying light pressure to Alix's sides. She jumps forward as if stung. I briefly close my eyes, but don't have much time to collect myself, because we're already off and I'm left to hold on for dear life.

Here's hoping my luck hasn't run out.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Winds of the Old Days' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1975)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _No, your previous review wasn't swallowed by the Purple People Eater, or at least not long-term ;). It's a glitch that appears about once every month, but it's usually resolved within a day or so, so I don't break out in a sweat anymore. It's annoying when there's a review waiting and I_ want _to read it but can't, but I resolved to be adult about it and show myself to be patient ;).  
Reading your last two review together, I realised that both chapters show Rilla excelling at her job, both in a paid in an an unofficial capacity. Like you said, this is the girl who in canon whipped up an entire wedding with a day's notice, who helped organise (and then saved!) a concert and who raised a child when really just a child herself. Rilla isn't academically inclined, but she's good at planning and organising and she keeps her cool even when faced with difficulties. So far, in this story, she's mostly using her talent for more frivolous stuff like parties and wedding, but this enables her to see that she's actually _good _at something (which, given her family's emphasis on academic excellence, she's never seen before) and build self-confidence, which will help her when the stakes go up.  
I don't think Aunt Kim is in danger of developing schizophrenia, but she isn't exactly too happy with her lot. Uncle Al is harmless, but a bit of a buffon. She was drawn in by the glamour of the royal family, only to find herself married with a child by the time she realised that maybe this particular prince was a frog. (Aunt Caroline realised the same thing a few years earlier, but managed to make a break for it.) But the reader, at least, gets what they see with Uncle Al. There's no more to him than is apparent, whereas there's _definitely _more to Aunt Mary. It'll be quite a while before we get to it (probably around 40 more chapters or something), but we will learn more about her backstory, about what shaped her into the person she is and about what makes her tick to this day. That doesn't excuse her snobbishness and her all around arrogant behaviour here, but I hope it will be interesting :)._  
 _I had_ so _much fun with the Romanov connection! I've sat on that particular nugget of family relations pretty much since the beginning of the story and it was deeply satisfying to finally get to Aunt Tanya and have her reveal it all. As you said, Olga was considered as a bride for Edward, Prince of Wales, before WW1, but didn't like him, so I thought maybe she'd like my Prince of Wales better (at least for a while) and ran with the idea. It means that Aunt Tanya is really as royal as it gets, and it_ also _means that she has very deep vaults to dig in to. Being a (half-)Romanov comes with lots of shiny, sparkly things!  
Now, you were entirely right about the song I took the last chapter title from and I corrected it immediately, so thanks for that! I can't even blame the doc manager. What happened is that I usually copy that line from a previous chapter to keep the formatting and just switch out the relevant data. I did that with chapter 71 and forgot to change the song title. It's therefore all on me, but it was an honest mistake and not meant to be disrespectful to Bob! ;)  
I think Tatty and Sexy Eeyore actually created a good balance in that last chapter. We have Tatty, who technically does outrank Rilla and has a far longer history with the royals, but who's happy and supportive to see Rilla strive. On the other hand, we have Pilkington, who is "just" one of the protection people, but puts on all kinds of airs and almost chokes when having to defer to Rilla. Shows who's the bigger person alright!  
I'm super happy you like Di and Nia together. I've been wanting to pair them up for a long time, but never had quite the right opportunity to work it in, so I just decided "to hell with it" in last week's chapter and added the line of them being together. I think they're well-suited and, of course, they're both very clever and strong women, so you can be sure we will see more of them, individually and as a couple!  
Sorry to hear about the situation you're in. It's scary how human rights and citizens' rights are being pruned all over the world because of the virus, even if it might in parts be necessary. I hope it will only be temporary, but in some countries, it won't be and that's a terrifying thought. As you said though, we will get through it, because we must. Stay strong, stay safe and stay healthy!  
_


	73. Wild horses couldn't drag me away

_Windsor, England  
September 2014_

 **Wild horses couldn't drag me away**

"Ho!" Sitting down deeper in the saddle, I close my knees and apply light pressure to the reins. Blacky flickers his ears towards me. He slows his trot before coming to a halt, skipping over the walking part just as I wanted him to. When he stands, all four hooves are nicely placed below his body.

"Well done!" I praise him, reaching out to pat his flank.

He flexes his neck forward, experimentally pushing against the bit to see whether the reins might loosen. Briefly, I let my hands follow the movement and allow him to stretch his neck, but then gather him back towards me. Pressing my calves against his sides, I ask him to go forward again and he obediently transitions back into a trot, lightly jiggling the bit with his tongue.

He's moving a little too enthusiastically, so I flex my ring fingers to perform a half-halt, collecting him beneath me as I do. There's a moment of hesitation, but then Blacky acquiesces and I feel his back rise and his gait shorten as his hind legs come up under his body to support it.

"Good boy," I murmur, briefly moving a hand forward to stroke his withers. Blacky snorts contentedly and chomps down on his bit as he trots along the diagonal of the riding area. I allow him to lengthen his stride into a medium trot, while lightly playing with the reins to keep the connection. He reacts willingly, showing the desired impulsion and suppleness in his gait.

Or, he does, until there's a sound near the door and he suddenly shies away. Instinct kicking in, I close my legs around Blacky's body for stability, sit down deeply in the saddle and pull at the reins with more force than normal. Blacky bolts forward for a second, raising his head and pushing against the reins, but then he responds to my aids and slows down, before coming to a shivering halt.

"There's a good horse," I tell him soothingly. "Nothing to be afraid of."

I keep my grip in the reins to give him stability, only allowing myself to rather awkwardly pat a closed fist against his neck. Briefly, one ear flickers back towards me, before he directs his attention back towards the door. His entire body is tense, ready to bolt again at a moment's notice.

"Sorry," Persis calls out. When I half-turn my head in her direction, I can see she's looking sheepish.

"It's okay," I assure her, though still keeping the majority of my focus on Blacky. "He's got to learn how to deal with this."

Persis replies something that could be "tell me about it", but I don't pay enough attention to be sure. Instead, I carefully slip my feet from the stirrups, before swinging my right leg over Blacky's croup and sliding from the saddle. Only when my feet have hit the ground do I loosen my tight hold on the reins.

Blacky prances nervously, but when I move to stand by his head, muttering soothing words of nothingness, I notice him directing his attention back towards me. One hand on the reins, I raise the other to stroke his muzzle, trying to communicate that everything is alright. It takes a few moments for him to relax, but finally, with a heavy sigh, he lowers his head towards me, allowing me to rub his forehead.

It's only now that the horse is calmed down that I turn back to the door, where Persis is standing – accompanied by an entire TV crew. Part of me wants to ignore them, but then Persis raises a hand to wave me over and it's not like I can ignore that.

Clicking my tongue encouragingly and giving the reins a tug, I ask Blacky to accompany me there. He's apprehensive, but clearly feels more courageous now that he can hide behind me and follows me towards the door. With about two meters to go, he comes to a halt again, loudly blowing air through his nostrils and staring wide-eyed at the furry sound boom.

Since we're close enough for conversation and given that a sound boom is not an object your regular horse must necessarily be familiar with, I relent and permit him to remain standing. Patting his neck, I slip the reins over his head for more length, before turning to face Persis and her camera crew. Behind me, Blacky snorts distrustfully, but remains still.

"How did he do today?" Persis asks conversationally, apparently determined to ignore the camera and appear natural. (She's only partly succeeding.)

"He did well," I answer, my gaze flickering towards the camera and back to Persis. "He only spooked three times before you turned up."

Persis smiles wryly. She extends a hand for Blacky to sniff at, but he remains steadfast, refusing to come any closer to the sound boom. After a moment, Persis drops her hand and turns to the woman to her right, who is evidently the moderator of the TV program they're filming.

"This is one of my junior horses." Persis indicates Blacky. "I got him this spring. He has very good gaits and can jump mountains, making him a potentially great all-rounder. He'd be the perfect eventing horse, if only he weren't so spooky. Depending on whether he can overcome that, he'll either be the best buy I ever made or the greatest disappointment of them all."

"We're working on it," I chime in defiantly, feeling I have to defend Blacky who is really trying his best and not at fault for being a little jumpy.

"Is he still afraid of his own shadow?" counters Persis jokingly.

"Only if it moves too fast," I shoot back.

Persis and the moderator laugh. Blacky snorts nervously.

"Rilla has really been helping me with his training," Persis explains. "He needs a lot of time and patience, which I don't always have because of my other horses. When he came here, he really _was_ afraid of his own shadow, but Rilla has been doing wonders. He's much calmer already."

"He just needed to get settled in," I respond modestly, feeling a little uneasy with the praise. "I'm mostly doing basic training exercises with him. Persis is by far the better rider and I couldn't hope to match her skill."

Persis shakes her head decisively. "You've gotten really good! You're _so_ good at getting them to relax and loosen up. Even Mum says so. She said you have a very steady, gentle hand."

I raise both eyebrows, surprised. If Leslie said that, it's high praise indeed. I've seen her ride and she could rival most top-tier dressage riders. When she's on Rusalka, it looks like they're floating, hardly even touching the ground, and yet, even to the trained eye Leslie is barely moving. She's really, really, _really_ good and while I will never be as good a rider as she and Persis are, it makes me feel proud to hear that Leslie praised me.

The moderator, perhaps tired of listening to Persis and me heaping praise on each other, pipes up, "Rilla had a hand in your miracle ride last month as well, didn't she?"

"I helped warm up the horse. It was nothing," I clarify, just as Persis protests, "It wasn't a miracle ride at all. If anything, Alix was the miracle."

I don't know how she did it, but Persis prevailed at the WEG and finished the jumping part of the competition. She looked somewhat dazed throughout, but Alix did, indeed, know what to do, clocking a clear round in time for the pair of them. Individually, it was only good for tenth place, but it secured the British team a silver medal. However, when Persis fainted right off the podium at the award ceremony, there was no hiding her cold anymore. The papers, naturally, went wild, reporting for days about how their princess rallied to win a silver medal against all odds (her poor teammates got pushed to the side a bit, I fear). It also led to the BBC asking to produce a documentary about Persis and her horses, which explains this weekend's presence of the moderator, the camera team and the terrifying sound boom.

(To be honest, I did not plan to be a part of this documentary, but I think I can withhold permission to use the bits with me later on. I'm not particularly wild on the scenes with me getting shown on principle. After all, it's a bit hypocritical to ask for privacy and then allow yourself to be filmed for TV, even in support of a friend.)

"You enjoy getting creative with naming your horses, don't you?" the moderator asks Persis, probably prompted by the jump that needs to be taken to get from _The Sea King's Daughter_ to _Alix_.

"Their names are all related to past royals in some way," answers Persis, looking a little embarrassed.

"Of course they are," declares the moderator brightly. "What is the name of this handsome fellow?"

"Blacky," replies Persis.

The moderator looks at Blacky and frowns in confusion. "Blacky?" she repeats quizzically.

Obviously, she's unable to bridge the discrepancy between Blacky's name and his chestnut coat. Not that I can blame her.

"Oh." Persis laughs a little self-deprecatingly. "His full name is _The Black Prince's Ruby_. I would have nicknamed him Ruby, but that's more of a girl's name."

The moderator nods, but her frown doesn't disappear. "Black Prince, you say? That is an unusual name in today's political climate."

Persis's laugh dies on her lips. Instead, her expression shows first confusion and then, as the meaning of the words dawns on her, turns increasingly horrified. I know she never once considered that someone might feel offended by Blacky's name, nor did she intend for it to happen.

With Persis rendered speechless and the moderator expecting an answer, I take a step forward. Blacky follows me reluctantly, still eyeing the sound boom. Speaking in what I hope is a calm and reasonable voice, I rack my brain for what Owen told me when we visited The Tower together.

"The Black Prince's Ruby is a gemstone that is – " (In which crown was it set again?) "that is part of the crown jewels. It is not a real ruby," (Was it a spinel?) "but it's been called that for hundreds of years. Originally, it belonged to Edward the Black Prince, who was the son of… of Edward III." (Please let it not have been Edward II!) "He wore a black armour, hence why people called him the Black Prince and hence why the horse is called Blacky. If Edward had had a taste for pink, we'd be calling the horse Pinkie now, but amusing as that might be, it's not the case. We have to strive for historical accuracy, of course."

I smile at the moderator, daring her to contradict me on anything I just said (all the while hoping I got my Edwards right). It was delivered, I must admit, with more pretended than actual confidence and with little to no authority.

"Historical accuracy," repeats the moderator, mirroring my smile. "That's very important."

"It is," I agree, even though I honestly couldn't care less about how historically accurate the names of Persis's horses are. But if it means getting the woman to leave Persis alone, I tell the lie happily and would tell several more if necessary.

Persis seems to have used the moment to collect herself, because she, too, has now put on a pleasant smile. (If it's a bit shaky, she can surely be forgiven for that.) "Rilla explained it perfectly," she asserts, hopefully closing down the subject once and for all. Turning to me, she asks quickly, "We planned to go up to the meadow by the forest next. Do you want to come with us?"

She's afraid of more probing questions and wants someone to hide behind, just as Blacky is still hiding behind me rather than face the sound boom head on. But even though I understand the sentiment, there's no use in me drawing attention during what is supposed to be her big TV moment. (Quite apart from me not wanting to be filmed for longer than necessary.)

"I still have to finish up Blacky's training," I tell her apologetically, patting her arm in a way not unlike I patted Blacky's neck minutes ago. What I'm really trying to say is, 'You'll be fine.' I hope she understands.

Persis swallows, but then nods bravely. "Of course you do. I'll see you later?"

"I'll be around for lunch," I confirm. (The moderator pricks her ears up at this.) "And speaking of lunch," I continue, ignoring everyone but Persis, "do you want me to take Blue out afterwards? Ken and I wanted to go for a ride and I thought it might be good training for him after his injury. Lots of walk, maybe a little trot. Nothing too strenuous."

"You mean Ken plans on riding his own horse for a change?" asks Persis, a sly smile spreading over her face.

"He rides Jack plenty," I parry, but with a smile of my own.

(It's not exactly accurate. If someone were to count, they'd find me riding Jack more often than Ken does, but then, he's much busier than I am. Pamela really doesn't overwork us, whereas Ken has a royal thing basically every other day, plus all the non-public stuff he has to do. He's busy alright.)

"If you say so…" Persis lets the sentence trail of to express her doubt.

Smiling, I shake my head at her, then nod at the moderator and her camera crew. "I've got to continue here. It was nice meeting you." Without waiting around for a reply, I turn back to Blacky, hoping they can catch a hint.

Apparently, they do, because when I look over my shoulder moments later, I can see the entire group retreating and leaving the riding area altogether.

"They're gone, Blacky," I tell the horse quietly. "Should we get some more work done?" He nudges my arm with his nose, which I take to mean he agrees.

I get back into the saddle and take up the reins again, to which Blacky responds willingly enough. We need a few moments to get back into the zone, but after we do, we spent another twenty minutes with productive training. By the time we leave the riding arena, there's no camera to be seen and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Leading Blacky back to his stable, I take off his saddle and groom him, slipping him an extra treat or three for having been a good horse. With Blacky happily settled, I climb up to the changing room to get my non-riding clothes out of my locker and get changed into them. It seems nonsensical, considering I'm set to go riding with Ken later, but before that, there's lunch up at the castle and riding gear isn't the best attire for eating. (Mostly because it smells.)

Having changed, I quickly check my phone. There's a message from Mum asking to confirm a time for our call tomorrow, one from Lucy asking to crash at my place after next Friday's exhibition opening, another from Nia asking how am I and lastly, one from my colleague Meggie asking to recommend a venue for the twelfth birthday party of a stockbroker's daughter.

I answer them all, then skip down the stairs to where my bike is parked. With Persis's equine training centre situated a little to the south of Windsor Castle, it's too far to walk, but it's a comfortable bike ride. The direct path takes one up the Long Walk and while I sometimes prefer to make a detour if I want to avoid the stares, I'm feeling relaxed about them today, so chose to take the quickest way and proceed to cycle to the Long Walk.

Sometimes, I have to admit, it's a bit funny to see people's faces when they recognise me. They tend to look like they've seen a ghost. I also feel a quiet sense of satisfaction at seeing the tourists press their noses against the gates in front of the palace, only to have them open for me without so much as a word. At times, I even have to supress the urge to wave as I whisk past.

Once in the palace, I ask one of the housemaids – her name is Bethany – where Ken is and am directed to Owen's private office. Inside, I find both Owen and Ken bend over a desk that is covered in pages of paper.

"Rilla!" exclaims Owen when I slip inside the room. "You're Heaven-sent!"

I am?

Feeling a little apprehensive, I walk closer and try to get a glimpse at some of those pages. "Can I help you?" I ask hesitatingly.

"Funny you should ask," replies Owen without missing a beat. "In fact, we _could_ use some help."

Yes, it does look like it. His desk is a mess.

"What are you doing?" I ask, gingerly picking up one of the pages. It's a list of names.

Ken reaches out to lightly brush his fingers against my free hand in greeting. "We're trying to figure out the guest list for November," he answers.

Both Leslie and Ken are celebrating a milestone birthday in late November – his thirtieth and her sixtieth – and there's a joint party planned. By the looks of it, it will be a large one. There will be a buffet and dancing and apparently, fancy dress of the kind where 'fancy' is to be taken literally.

"Isn't it a bit late to send out invites?" I query. After all, the party in just a little over two months.

"It's a tad spontaneous, but I think it will be fine," claims Owen with the assuredness of someone for whom people will definitely adjust any and all pre-made plans. He's probably right, too - whoever gets an invite to this shinding will make sure they are free to attend, even if it means cancelling on someone else.

"It will be fine _if_ we manage to work out a guest list beforehand," Ken amends and grimaces slightly.

I let go of the list of names and look up at him, not without surprise. "You have events with guests all the time," I remark. "This should be easy for you."

"Ah, but for official events, we're given the guest list by the relevant government offices," Owen explains, his grimace mirroring Ken's, "and for private parties, we usually leave the planning to my wife."

Leslie is nowhere to be seen.

"Mum left us an hour ago," Ken answers my unspoken question. "She said to have a guest list ready when she returns."

"Lost patience with the two of you, did she?" I ask, not doing much to hide my grin.

Owen and Ken exchange a pained look. "She might have gotten a little exasperated with us," Owen admits reluctantly.

And now they want me to take over?

Well.

"Let me see," I order, pointing at the lists of names spread out over the desk.

"We need to narrow those down to considerably." Ken hands me a wad of papers.

"Which I'm sure the two of you are more than qualified to do," adds Owen cheerfully. "In fact, why don't I leave you to it?"

Ken looks up and opens his mouth to protest, but his father is already heading for the door, waving at us before he leaves the room.

"Did he just…?" Ken stares at the closed door, taken aback.

"He did," I confirm, already trying to sort through the haphazard collection of papers.

"He can't just leave this to us!" protests Ken.

I look up briefly. "Evidently he can, because he just did," I inform him. "And besides, this is your birthday party, isn't it? Not his – and not mine either."

"Mine and Mum's," corrects Ken, sounding a tad petulant.

"I'll sub for you mother," I promise.

He pulls a face, which makes him look like he's suffering from a bad case of toothache. "Don't ever say that again."

Shaking my head at him, I nevertheless can't help laughing. "Okay, I won't."

Ken, however, still looks put out. "I didn't even ask for this party," he grumbles. "If I had my way, I'd invite no-one but you – preferably to a very, _very_ lonely island somewhere in the Pacific."

"No reason why we can't do both," I reply blithely. "But for now, duty calls."

He glares darkly.

"Oh, come on," I encourage, laughing. "If you're a good boy, I promise to come up with a special birthday surprise for you."

That reliably makes him perk up. "What kind of surprise?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you!" I tease.

He gives me another glare, but I just laugh it off and turn to the desk. Spreading all papers out in a somewhat orderly way, I ask, "What have we got here?"

There's a moment of hesitation from Ken, but then he sighs and relents. Coming up behind me, he slips a hand to lie on my waist, but obediently bends to look at the long, long lists of names.

"Those are all the people we thought might get an invite," he explains. "But there are too many to fit."

"In that case," I rub my hands together and flex my fingers, "let's see what we can do."

Pulling out a chair, I plonk down on it and frown at the papers. "First of all, we need to group them into categories. We have your friends, your mother's friends, your family –"

" _Your_ family," interjects Ken, as he drags over a chair for himself.

"At least those members of my family who can afford to slink over to London for a simple party," I amend, but I'm smiling. I love how naturally he includes my family in this.

"If it were simple, it wouldn't be so hard," mutters Ken.

"Don't be defeatist, dear," I chide him. (It's a phrase I picked up from Great-Aunt Tanya and it amuses me considerably.) Ken rolls his eyes at me, a smile tugging at his lips.

Pointing at the papers, I continue, "We have friends and family. Next up are charity representatives and –" I peer at the list in front of me "– and _government officials_?"

Raising my head, I look at Ken, incredulous. "Really? At a _birthday party_?"

He shrugs. "That Pacific island is starting to look ever more appealing, isn't it?"

Yeah, he kind of has a point there.

But instead of agreeing, I decidedly shake my head. "We're doing this," I inform Ken briskly. "We'll just make sure to invite not a single government person more than we absolutely need to."

"Sounds like a plan I can get behind," he acknowledges.

"Good." I rummage through the mess on the desk until I have found two pens, several clean sheets of papers and three coloured markers.

"Okay, listen up." I hand Ken a pen and some clean pages. "First of all, we'll go through these lists and rewrite them in a way that makes sense. One page for family, one for friends and so on. Then we decide how many people we can invite from each group and start marking the names according to how likely the person is to be invited. We try to include all the 'yeses' and see how many 'maybes' make the cut. Anyone we don't like and can get away with not inviting, we make a 'no'. Got it?"

Ken salutes snappily. "Aye, aye, Colonel Blythe!"

I arch an eyebrow upwards. "Just colonel?"

"Admiral Blythe?" he tries.

"Better," I approve. "And now, go to work."

"Ma'am! Yes, Ma'am!" Another salute.

I roll my eyes at him, but can't help a smile.

Thankfully, he's done with the antics and does, indeed, go to work as told. I quickly follow suit and for the next half an hour, we work through the hundreds of names, making reasonable progress.

By the time Owen comes back, we aren't finished, but we've gotten the chaos pretty well organised.

"How is it going?" he asks brightly.

"Better since you left," Ken remarks, dead-pan.

Owen laughs. "Better than Rilla joined, I'd say," he counters.

I smile modestly. Ken grins, but doesn't disagree.

"We're making progress," I inform Owen. "I think we should get it done today."

"Excellent." Owen nods approvingly. "Persis is coming up as well. The TV crew just took a lunch break."

"Is it going well so far?" I enquire. "I'm honestly still surprised she agreed to do this. It seems so…"

When I trail off, Ken suggests, "So unlike Persis?"

"Yes. Very unlike Persis," I agree.

Owen looks thoughtful. "We have to react to the goodwill as it comes and Persis knows that," he explains. "She got a lot of good press and interest after winning that silver medal, which she can leverage to her advantage. Being shier and more private than Ken and Teddy, she is more of an enigma to the public and has been criticised for that. This TV program allows them to get to know her in a relatively safe setting. Additionally, she's in her element with the horses, which I hope means she's more relaxed on camera than she otherwise would be."

"That makes sense," I agree slowly, even as I silently sympathise with people-shy Persis having to do something so unlike herself, just because her position asks it of her. It's one of the perils of royalty, I guess, but I know it probably took a lot for her to do this.

"But you're making sure to keep control about which scenes they air, aren't you?" Ken wants to know, his brows knitted into a frown.

"Of course," replies Owen. "In fact…" He pauses for a moment, then looks at me. "In fact, I came to ask Rilla to give permission to allow the scene featuring her to be shown in the documentary."

Next to me, I feel Ken tense. Placing a soothing hand on his thigh, I turn to Owen. "Why is that?" I'm not too enthused by the idea, but at least I want to hear him out.

"Persis told me that the name of her new horse came up and that the moderator suggested it could be taken to be offensive." Owen's expression is serious.

"The name is unfortunate, but why can't you just make them take that question out of the final version?" Ken wants to know.

"You know why," Owen answers calmly. "It will come up again if she competes on that horse and once it does, no-one will listen to any of her explanations. If the allegation is out there, no explanation will get it back into the box."

Slowly, reluctantly, Ken nods. "How will featuring Rilla help with that?" he asks.

"I explained the name and how it relates to Edward the Black Prince," I tell him. I think I'm starting to see where Owen is heading.

"That's what Persis said as well," Owen confirms. "I hope that with the explanation delivered together with the question, it won't become as much of an issue. No-one has any time to speculate if we clear it up immediately."

"Hmm…" Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "I guess that makes sense."

"It does," I agree, my eyes finding Owen's. "If it helps Persis, you can include me."

Ken covers my hand with his own and gives it a quick squeeze.

"Thank you!" Owen smiles warmly. "You're really turning out to be our saviour today. First Persis and her horses and then Ken and me with that guest list. I wonder whatever we'd do without you."

"Oh, you'd be lost," I reply, laughing.

"Utterly," agrees Ken. He's smiling, but there's sincerity in his eyes. "Utterly, utterly lost."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Wild Horses' (written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, released by the Rolling Stones in 1971)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _It's so lovely to hear from you again! I figured you were probably busy in these weird times, but I have been thinking about you in the past two weeks especially, wondering if you're okay. Of course, you don't have to justify your whereabouts to people on the internet, but it was still a relief to hear from you!_  
 _Life really is crazy at the moment, isn't it? I'm lucky in that my usual routine continues mostly as before, which gives me something to hold on to, but I understand_ _that's different for you. I have my fingers crossed that things quieten down soon, for all of us, but you especially. How is the general situation where you are? From what I read, you seem to have the virus under good control, but I appreciate that that's hard to judge from the outside. What about restrictions? Are they still manageable or are they affecting your life a lot? Also, you mentioned being worried about your parents, so I really, really hope they aren't ill or otherwise unwell!_  
 _I wish you a lot of strength and, above everything, health for you and your family. It's tough, but we have to hang in there. I mean, it's got to be over_ someday _, right?_


	74. There's diamonds and pearls in your hair

_London, England  
October 2014_

 **There's diamonds and pearls in your hair**

"How about this one? It might be a bit long for you, but you could have it shortened," suggests Di, holding up a navy sheath dress in front of the camera of her laptop.

"It's nice, but –" I attempt to interject.

Di doesn't listen. Instead, she leans to the side, thus disappearing from my screen for a few moments. When she returns, she's brandishing a summer coat in such a bright pink that I can't picture her ever wearing it. Even on the grainy computer screen, it clashes with her hair and I can't see it pairing much better with mine.

Looking from the coat to me and back to the coat, Di states after a short pause, "On second thought, maybe not. I'll give it to Nan." She tosses the coat aside, muttering, "I don't even think I ever wore it."

"Yes. But, Di –" I try again.

My sister whips up a green skirt with a geometric pattern. "Do you like this one?"

"It's lovely," I assure. "But what I was trying to say –"

"What about hats?" asks Di, suddenly balancing a grey cloche on her fingertips.

"Yes, it's very pretty," I tell her. "But I really need to –"

A dark purple blouse is dangled in front of me (well, in front of Di's computer camera). "You do wear purple, don't you?" she checks.

"I wear purple," I confirm. "But I –"

The purple blouse is replaced by a blue-striped top. This time, however, I have enough.

"Di!" I call out, loud enough to wake George, who raises his head and stares at me disdainfully.

The striped top disappears, to be replaced by my sister's face. (Is it just me or does she look a little sheepish?) "Yes?"

"Look, I don't want to sound ungrateful. It's incredibly nice of you to offer me all those clothes –" I begin.

"I'm not wearing them anyway and it makes no sense to lug them through the entire country," Di interjects. "Besides, I'm sure you can use them."

" _But_ ," I continue pointedly, ignoring her remark. "I have an invitation for tea in half an hour and I believe you wanted to talk to me about something?"

There's a moment of hesitation. "Maybe I just wanted to show you the clothes?" Di tries to deflect, though without sounding very convincing.

" _Did_ you?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. (Next to me on the bed, George rolls over once and pointedly goes back to sleep.)

Another pause. "No," she finally admits with a sigh.

"Well, then. Shall we talk about it?" I encourage. "I promise not to bite."

Di grimaces. Whatever it is, it's clearly weighing on her.

She takes a deep breath, then – "Nia and I are getting married next summer."

Now I'm the one taking a deep breath. And another one.

"Please tell me you giving me all those clothes isn't related to that news," I blurt out.

Whatever Di expected, it wasn't that. She scrunches up her face in confusion. "I… I'm giving them away because I'm moving and I'm moving to Montreal because of Nia," she explains slowly. "She got a job with –"

"– with the Polytechnique Montréal, researching peaceful use of uranium," I finish. "And you're transferring to the St. Hyacinthe branch of the National Microbiology Laboratory to be close to her. I know that."

"She told you," Di surmises.

I shrug. "We're friends. We tell each other things."

"If you know about us moving in together, I don't understand –" begins Di.

I cut her off by shaking my head. "I just don't want you to think you had to, you know, give me _stuff_ to mellow me out before telling me this."

"Oh!" Understandings lights up Di's face. "No, not at all. I just… I really want you to have these clothes and I… I guess I was stalling."

"Why?" I ask quietly.

Di frowns, looking as if she's ordering her thoughts. "Because Nia's your friend and you knew her first. You haven't been asking about her as much as you used to with my other girlfriends. Nia also said the two of you have mostly been talking about other things."

I nod slowly, unconsciously extending a hand to stroke George. He allows it, even starting to purr softly.

"I think it's… it's because I know both of you," I try to explain. "It's weird to talk with one about the other. Chatting with you about a previous girlfriend I didn't know well, or with Nia about her then-partners… it was different. I'm sorry it seemed like I wasn't supportive, because I am. I just… I think it's just a bit odd to talk to you separately about it because I have relationships to both of you independently. I support you, but I don't need the details."

"So… you're not mad about… me and her being together?" asks Di, hesitatingly.

(Has she really been worrying about this for all these months?)

"Di!" I exclaim. "Of course I'm not mad! I love you, I love Nia. If you're happy together, why would I not be happy about that as well?"

Di shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. "I just… I wasn't sure."

"Well then, please be sure now," I tell her. "I've watched you search for your person for years and I've seen the frogs and… and the frogesses Nia had to kiss in the past. If you're each other's person, that's efficient for me. Two people happily off my list."

"You have a list?" asks my sister, veering between amusement and incredulity.

"Not a _real_ list," I correct. (Since working through the guest lists for that double royal birthday party next month, I've developed a phobia of lists anyway.) "But I like the people I care about to be happy. If the two of you make each other happy, that's two birds with a stone for me."

Di raises both eyebrows, chuckling. "Much obliged."

I stick out my tongue at her.

"And you? Have you definitely found _your_ person?" she asks, her expression curious.

Automatically, my gaze is drawn to the bedroom door. Somewhere behind it, I know Ken to be working through some intensely boring government material. "It would appear so," I tell Di, a small smile playing on my lips.

"Any chance of beating me to the altar?" teases Di.

Laughing, I shake my head. "There's no rush. Let's get you hitched first."

"Fine by me," agrees Di easily.

Next to me, I notice George raising his head. Moments later, there's a knock on the door and, when I call for him to enter, Ken sticks his head in. "Any idea how much longer you need?" he asks.

"Hey Ken!" calls out Di.

He laughs. "Hello, Di."

"We're done here," she continues, loud enough for him to hear. "You may kidnap Rilla now."

"It's hardly kidnapping." I scoff. "We're having tea with his ninety-year old great-aunt."

"Ninety-seven," amends Ken.

Di inclines her head, looking impressed. (I have to agree. It _is_ impressive how active Great-Aunt Tanya still is at that age.)

"Either way, I think I will be fine," I decide. Turning back to Di, I ask, "We're fine, too?"

"Perfectly," she confirms with a nod.

"Good." I smile. "Just promise me that next time, you come to me sooner, alright?" With Ken still standing in the doorway, I don't specify what I mean, but I know Di understands.

She returns my smile. "I will."

I nod, satisfied. "That's what I wanted to hear. Now, please give Nia my love and make sure to send me those clothes at your earliest convenience."

Both Di and Ken start laughing. "Not greedy at all!" she declares. "Never," he agrees. I glare at them both. George, feeling disturbed, backs me up on this.

Still laughing, Di waves at me, before moving to shut her laptop, ending our call. I push my computer off my lap, swing my legs from the bed and give George a parting pat on the head. He blinks at me.

"What did Di want?" asks Ken, as we both leave the room to walk downstairs.

"She and Nia are getting married next summer," I answer casually.

He looks a bit surprised. "How long have they been dating?"

"Couple of month," I reply. Then, in a teasing tone, "Not everyone needs as long as we do to commit."

"Ah, but we're perfectly committed," he corrects, grinning. "Or is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"Nothing you absolutely _need_ to know," I deflect, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

Ken laughs and pulls me to him for a moment, almost causing me to lose my footing on the stairs. "Hey! Careful!" I protest.

"Sorry, sorry." But his grin means he doesn't _look_ very sorry at all, so I do my best George impression and glare at him through narrowed eyes. His grin merely widens.

I turn up my nose at him and attempt to walk ahead, but he grabs my hand and refuses to let go. With no other option, I drag him with me towards the ground floor, not able to fight the smile on my lips.

"So," Ken remarks behind me, "Di and Nia getting married, huh?"

"As I just told you," I reply pointedly.

"Didn't Nia have a boyfriend back when you lived in New York?" he asks.

I stop dead in my tracks and pull my hand from his, almost causing him to stumble into me. With both hands on my hips, I turn to look at him incredulously. "The 1890s called," I inform him. "They'd like their outdated views on sexuality back."

Ken blinks, clearly confused for a moment, but then understanding shows on his face. Chuckling, he shakes his head. "Fair enough," he acknowledges. "It was a foolish question and I apologise for asking it."

"At least you see the errors of your ways," I praise him, patting his cheek. "And now, do be a good boy and drive me to see your great-aunt. We wouldn't want to leave her waiting."

"Aye, aye, Admiral Blythe." He salutes snappily, then grabs my hand back and leads me to the front door. I follow without overly much resistance, smiling to myself and reflecting that yes, I appear to have found my person alright.

Luckily, Great-Aunt Tanya seems to think so, too, having shown remarkable support for our relationship ever since I first met her in June. She's had us over for tea several times already and this time, she's hinted at having a surprise planned, which makes me ever more eager to get there punctually.

Great-Aunt Tanya lives in Marlborough House, which is a brick mansion on Pall Mall, close to Buckingham Palace. Right next to it is St James's Palace, which is still the official residence of the monarch, but these days only houses the offices and London apartments of Uncle Al and Aunt Mary. It's a fairly gloomy place, so it's no wonder they spend most of their time at their respective country homes. By far the nicest part of the St James's Palace complex is Clarence House, a detached light pink mansion that is used as a guest house and, if rumour is to be believed, is ear-marked for Leslie's widowhood. (It's a miserable thought.)

That time, however, is hopefully far in the future yet, and for now, Ken simply drives us past St James's Palace and Clarence House, pulling up in front of the gates of Marlborough House instead. The guard glances into our car and, upon recognising Ken, waves us inside quickly. The other car with Ken's PPOs follows us closely.

After exiting our car, we're met at the door of the house by Great-Aunt Tanya's butler, Mr Phong. He's the highest ranking member of her household and not only oversees all other staff, but has a close eye on, well, _everything_. I don't think anything at all happens in Marlborough House without Mr Phong knowing. Great-Aunt Tanya is certainly in good hands with him.

"Your Royal Highness," he greets with a respectful bow, "Miss Blythe."

"Good afternoon Mr Phong," replies Ken politely. "Is she in the drawing room?" (The 'she' in this being, of course, Great-Aunt Tanya.)

Mr Phong, surprisingly, shakes his head. "Her Royal Highness asked me to take you up to her rooms today. Tea will be served in her private sitting room."

I exchange a glance with Ken, raising my eyebrows in question and receiving nothing but a shrug in reply. This is not helpful! (Could it be tied to the surprise I was promised?)

With Mr Phong leading the way, we enter the main hall with its chessboard floor and its selection of vaguely martial-looking paintings depicting some war or another that I can't seem to remember. (Owen would be disappointed, I know.) From the hall, we walk up the carved wooden stairs to the first floor, before crossing a corridor to the southern end of the house. Finally, Mr Phong knocks at a door and, after a moment of pause, opens it for us to step inside.

I don't know what I expected Great-Aunt Tanya's sitting room to look like, but given how formal the downstairs are, I _am_ a little surprised by how, well, home-y and _normal_ it is. Of course, the furniture is still crazy expensive and very likely antique, but it has a lived-in feel that most rooms in royal residences lack. (For all the space they have, the royals generally seem to inhabit just a small number of rooms in any given place.)

Hanging on the wall and sitting on every available surface are dozens of photographs of smiling people. I spot several pictures of Ken and his siblings, while a wedding portrait of Owen and Leslies takes pride of place. (Every time I see it, I am reminded again that yes, her dress really _was_ that awful and no, Owen did _not_ suit that hairstyle at all.) A quick glance around the room reveals most people on the photos to somehow be related to Great-Aunt Tanya and, seeing them, I am suddenly wistfully reminded of Mrs Weisz. Somehow, I think she and Great-Aunt Tanya would have gotten along like a house on fire, if only they could have had a chance to meet.

Before I can get nostalgic about past memories or melancholic about lost opportunities, Great-Aunt Tanya puts a stop to that by getting up from her armchair by the fire and beaming at us. "Darling Kenneth! And my dear Rilla! You're so lovely to come and spend time with a boring old woman."

"We're only ever as old as we think we are, Great-Aunt Tanya," Ken points out as he bends down to kiss her cheek.

"And I'm sure you never knew how to be boring to begin with," I add, stepping forward to offer my own greetings.

"Clever girl!" declares Great-Aunt Tanya, clearly delighted by my assessment, and pats my cheek approvingly.

There's a knock on the door and moments later, a maid wheels in a serving trolley loaded with everything needed for a scrumptious afternoon tea. At home, 'tea' rarely meant more than just the drink but living among English royals as I do, I've come to really appreciate this more elaborate version. Seeing as I skipped lunch today, I can already feel my mouth watering at the thought of cakes and scones and sandwiches, but Great-Aunt Tanya seems to have other ideas.

"We will take tea in half an hour, Eulalia," she tells the maid.

"As you wish, Ma'am," replies Eulalia and retreats from the room, taking the serving trolley with her. My stomach grumbles in protest.

Great-Aunt Tanya doesn't seem to have heard it (even with her hearing aid, some things slip past her), but Ken grins teasingly. I grimace at him most frightfully behind his aunt's back.

"So, Rilla-dear," Great-Aunt Tanya asks, "do you have a dress for the birthday next month?"

"I do, actually," I answer, tearing my longing gaze away from the closed door. "Tatty de Duras lend me a vintage dress from her grandmother Isadora."

Great-Aunt Tanya smiles. "Ah, darling Lolly, bless her soul! She was a dear friend of mine."

(Looks like those two families go way back.)

"Why did you call her Lolly?" I wonder. "Because it rhymes with Rolly?"

Next to me, Ken chuckles.

"Good Heavens, no!" Great-Aunt Tanya looks amused. "We called her Lolly long before Rolly was born. She was very mad at everyone when they started calling him that. She was glad he wasn't a daughter because she was afraid of a daughter of hers being called Polly, but her husband named him Rolly before she could intervene and…" She shrugs daintily.

Poor Lolly.

"But how did you go from Isadora to, well, _Lolly_?" I ask, still not having understood it.

Great-Aunt Tanya nods briskly. "Of course. Some thought it was because she was always lolling around at parties in her youth, but it was really short for 'eloquent'. She was such a bright, dazzling creature." Her gaze becomes a little nostalgic. "Ah, what fun the two of us had before the war! And she had such style. It will be lovely to see one of her old dresses worn again."

"It's a beautiful dress," I confirm eagerly, mentally picturing the dress I chose during a very fun afternoon spent with Tatty and Katie. It's a slinky silk dress in the style of the late 1930s, its colour the darkest of purples.

"Do you have jewellery to go with it?" Great-Aunt Tanya wants to know, watching me with a curious, almost calculating expression.

I frown. "Um… I just thought I'd put on a sparkly pair of earrings or something."

"Nonsense! A dress like that calls for proper jewellery as, I'm sure, Lolly would agree," declares Great-Aunt Tanya. "Luckily, I have prepared something. Follow me, please!"

She marches off with surprising agility towards a door I hadn't noticed before. I hesitate, looking at Ken for guidance, but he just shrugs and motions for me to follow his aunt, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The adjoining room is what appears to be a dressing room, with a large wardrobe, a cushy sofa and an intricately carved vanity table. My attention, however, is drawn to two birds sitting on their pedestals.

"Good morning!" pipes up the white one. "Good morning, good morning!"

Great-Aunt Tanya laughs. "Silly Cricket! It's afternoon." She holds out a finger to the bird who nips it affectionately.

"Afternoon," he croaks. "Afternoon."

"There's a good boy," praises Great-Aunt Tanya and pats his head. Turning to me, she introduces, "This is Cricket. He is a cockatoo. He belonged to my second husband, God bless him, but he always liked me better. Isn't that right, darling?"

"Darling, darling," repeats Cricket.

"And here," Great-Aunt Tanya points at the green parrot, "we have Gilbert, a Diademed Amazon Parrot."

 _Gilbert_?

I almost choke in my attempt not to laugh. I _must_ tell Dad about this!

"He was Lolly's, bless her soul," continues Great-Aunt Tanya, oblivious to how I'm straining not to burst out laughing. "His companion, Sullivan, died not long after poor, dear Lolly did, so Cricket and I took Gilbert in. Didn't we, Cricket?"

"Cricket, Cricket," agrees the cockatoo, nodding his yellow-crested head up and down.

Great-Aunt Tanya gives both birds a pat, before bustling over to the other side of the room without further explanation and sorting through several boxes stacked there. Seeing as she seems busy, I take a tentative step towards the birds. "Hello," I greet them.

"Hello, hello!" replies Cricket happily.

Gilbert ( _Gilbert_!), meanwhile, starts marching up and down his pedestal, whistling a jaunty tune. It sounds vaguely familiar, but…

" _Colonel Boogey March_ ," Ken remarks quietly from behind me. "It features in _The Bridge on the River Kwai_. Remember?"

Ken, it must be said, has a thing for old-ish movies and shows set in wartime that can, on occasion, be somewhat tiring. We're about halfway through _M*A*S*H_ at the moment, though in its defence, at least that one is amusing.

"I remember," I confirm, even as Gilbert the Parrot launches into _Sur le Pont d'Avignon_.

"Gilbert and Sullivan sang many pleasing duets in their day," explains Great-Aunt Tanya, appearing at my side. "Lolly had a bridge-theme for them."

Evidently.

"But enough of this," declares Great-Aunt Tanya as she takes my arm and leads me over to the vanity. "Please, sit."

Somewhat confused, but knowing better than to disobey Great-Aunt Tanya, I take a seat, staring at my face in the ornate mirror. Great-Aunt Tanya turns to rummage through a box and I look at Ken, who smiles reassuringly. (I have a feeling he has an idea what his aunt is up to and is enjoying this a little too much.)

Suddenly, I feel a heavy weight being placed on my head. When my eyes snap back to the mirror, I am confronted with a wall of diamonds sparkling back at me.

"This is called a kokoshnik. It was my great-grandmother's tiara," declares Great-Aunt Tanya brightly. "Empress Marie of Russia. She brought it to exile with her and left it to me in her will."

Uh…

The sparkly wall of diamonds is taken from my head, to be replaced by another tiara that has large diamond swirls, dangling diamond drops and sapphires the size of quail's eggs.

"The Sapphire Wave Tiara. It was given to my mother on occasion of her marriage by my great-grandmother," explains Great-Aunt Tanya, clearly unaware of my speechlessness. "After my mother's death, it was decided I would inherit her jewels, seeing as Alice was set to get those of the British Crown."

Um…

Great-Aunt Tanya adjusts the tiara slightly and smiles at me in the mirror. "Do you like it?" she asks.

"It… it… it's…" I croak, in marked resemblance to Cricket the Cockatoo. "It's, uh, beautiful."

"Quite right," agrees Great-Aunt Tanya blithely.

She takes the sapphire tiara away again, instead selecting an intricate all-diamond piece that has stones at least as large as my irises. It settles heavily on my head. (How much do these things _weigh_?) "The Lily of the Valley tiara," she announces. "It belonged to my grandmother, Empress Alexandra."

Uh-huh.

 _Right_.

Great-Aunt Tanya considers me thoughtfully in the mirror. "It might be a bit large for the first time, but how about…" She trails off, putting the Lily of the Valley tiara aside and pulling up another box instead.

From it, she produces a half-moon shaped tiara of small diamonds and large, rectangular light blue stones that she places on my head. "The Aquamarine Kokoshnik Tiara. It was gift from my grandmother to my mother to celebrate her engagement."

I stare in the mirror, taking in the brightly sparkling diamonds and the mutely shimmering aquamarines on my head. On _my_ head. I have no idea what to say, not even what to _think_. It's surreal! It's… it's…

"It's lovely!" Great-Aunt Tanya claps her hands. "Your hair brings out the colour of the stones better than mine ever did. Oh, it suits you so well!"

"It does," comes Ken's relaxed voice from behind her.

I whip my head around to look at him, almost dislodging the tiara. Great-Aunt Tanya tuts at me and carefully rightens it again. I, meanwhile, make eye contact with Ken, trying to urgently communicate to him that – well, I don't fully _know_ what I'm trying to communicate to him, but I think he could jolly well figure it out!

He, however, just grins at me. He's lounging on the sofa like he doesn't have a care in the world, clearly amused by the spectacle in front of him. It's _infuriating_!

"It does suit you," he remarks, raising his hands as if to indicate he can't be faulted for speaking what he perceives to be an apparent truth.

"But… but…" I protest. "But…"

"But! But, but, but!" parrots Cricket happily. Gilbert, thus woken from what looks to have been a slumber, jolts upright and immediately starts whistling _Bridge Over Troubled Water_.

Staring uncomprehendingly at all three of them, I give it up for a lost cause. Instead, I slowly turn back to the mirror, to find my bewildered image looking back at me. She's still wearing the tiara, this mirror-me, and when I do my best to ignore the weight of the stones and metal on my own head and focus instead on the women in the mirror, I find myself agreeing that yes, it doesn't look half bad. In fact, I might even have to admit that… that the tiara suits her, this woman in the mirror.

Very gingerly, I raise my hand and touch the metal frame. (Silver? Platinum?) It feels cool under my fingertips and when I let them wander, so do the stones.

"Wonderful," declares Great-Aunt Tanya happily, clasping her hands in front of her.

It is. I mean, it looks wonderful. Beautiful even. But… I mean, I couldn't possibly –

"You look gorgeous," Ken tells me as he comes up behind me and places both hands on my shoulders. When his eyes meet mine in the mirror, I can see that while he's still smiling, his expression is more earnest now.

I'd be lying if I claimed not to be pleased. I like looking pretty for him, with or without a priceless jewel on my head (on _my_ head!), but…

"However," Ken continues, now looking at his aunt. "I think it might not be the right time for this yet."

Our eyes lock in the mirror and when I nod slightly, he gently lifts the tiara from my head. As he does, the metaphorical weight lifts from my shoulder, just as the very real weight is lifted from my head.

It is a beautiful jewel, no argument. But it's also not the time for me to be wearing it.

Taking a deep breath, I dare to look over at Great-Aunt Tanya, who looks slightly disappointed. "Unmarried women used to wear tiaras all the time," she murmurs, sounding almost rebellious (and missing the point entirely).

She takes the tiara from Ken and carefully places it in its box. When she turns back to us, her face has brightened again.

"We will not let him spoil our fun, dearest," she informs me briskly. "I have many other jewels. We will find earrings for you and a necklace and maybe a brooch to wear in your hair… I have a lovely rose brooch that will look lovely on you!" She claps her hands, delighted at the thought. "Ah, you will be the belle of the ball! Just you trust Aunt Tanya."

"Aunt Tanya!" croaks Cricket "Aunt Tanya!"

"Naughty boy," she chides him as she bustles past him (I can't get over how mobile she is at her age!) and out of the room, presumably to procure the spoken-of brooch.

Ken and I stay back, silence settling between us for a moment. I watch in the mirror as Ken leans over to the boxes of tiaras, pulling closer one that Great-Aunt Tanya didn't open. "Diamond Kunzite Tiara," he reads from a label on the top. "Belonged to Empress Alexandra."

But _of course_ it did!

Opening the box, Ken lifts up a delicately-wrought tiara of diamonds and large pink-ish stones. Stepping back to stand behind me, he lets it hover above my head, not quite touching my hairline. "You do suit them," he remarks casually, surveying me in the mirror.

…

…

What am I supposed to _say_ to that?

If there _is_ something to say, I can't think of it. I'm left opening and closing my mouth like a fish, looking foolish enough that even the priceless jewel over my head can't alleviate it. Ken doesn't seem inclined to say anything else either, so the silences stretches until –

Until, behind us, Gilbert the Parrot cheerfully launches into the unmistakable tune of _London Bridge is Falling Down_.

 _Build it up with gold and silver,  
Gold and silver, gold and silver.  
Build it up with gold and silver,  
My fair lady._

Indeed.

I meet Ken's eyes in the mirror, there's a beat – and we both burst out laughing.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?' (written by Peter Sarstedt, released by him in 1969)._

* * *

 _To AnneShirley:_  
 _Ah, yes, I know there were a lot of horse-y bits in the last two chapters. I promise we're not turning this into a horse girl story though, so no-one needs to up their equine knowledge to understand it ;). I'm glad to hear you enjoyed the chapters (anyway?) and am looking forward to your thoughts whenever your wifi allows. In the meantime, you sent me down memory lane with your mention of Nokias and Snake. As for so many, my first phone was a Nokia 3310 (later updated to a 3330) and it kind of amuses me to remember how I thought it the height of modern technology back then. Those were the days, right?_

 _To KindofaKindred:_  
 _First of all, allow me to welcome you to my story =). I'm glad you discovered it and hope you're enjoying it!_ _If you like, I'd love to hear from you again in the future._  
 _I'm assuming that with regards to "Dowager Countess", we're both talking about_ Downton Abbey _, yes? Generation-wise, Great-Aunt Tanya is more in one bracket with George Crawley and his contemporaries than with the Dowager Countess, but since we're about 80-90 years later, you're right that she fulfils a similar role in my story as the Dowager Countess does in_ Downton Abbey _. Though since I only ever saw the show in German, I can safely claim to have come up with the "don't be defeatist, dear" quip without any_ Downton _influence ;).  
Of course, this chapter included a lot more Great-Aunt Tanya than before, so I'd love to hear what you thought of her here!  
_

 _To White:  
I don't know how far you've read by now and I didn't know quite where to put my reply to your review, so I hope you see this here :). It would be great if you could let me know when you've seen it.  
_ _Before I go into details, please allow me to welcome you to my story as well. I was very happy to receive your review and would love to hear from you again. I also hope you will continue to enjoy the story!  
Now, as for your question, I'm really perfectly relaxed with you imagining Ken as you want to. But if you're interested in my mental image of him, I picture him as tall, dark-haired and handsome, to the point of being maybe sometimes too good-looking. I don't have real life models for my characters, but if you'd like me to point you in a general direction, think a young Alain Delon or a young Jack Kerouac (or, if we're being more modern, someone a bit like Henry Cavill). I hope this helps!  
_


	75. Can you teach me how to dance real slow?

_London, England  
November 2014_

 **Can you teach me how to dance real slow?**

"Anne? Rilla?" Dad calls from downstairs. "Are you ready to go?"

"Just a minute," Mum's voice floats back.

I take a step back to critically survey myself in the mirror. Giving my dress a final tug and my hair a final pat, I decide that I'm as ready as I'll ever be. A parting nod at my mirror-self and I turn on my sparkly heel to make my way down the stairs.

Mum's 'minute' seems to take longer than the accustomed sixty seconds, so I arrive downstairs before she does. Dad waits in the hall, all decked out in a smart tuxedo, a neatly tied bowtie and extra-shiny shoes. When he sees me, a smile lights up his face.

"Could it be that this is really my daughter?" he jokes.

"Same old me," I promise, laughing. "It's just the packaging that's new – or rather, old. _Vintage_."

"I won't pretend to know what you mean by that, but I know without a doubt that you look beautiful," he tells me, smiling warmly.

"You scrub up well yourself," I return the compliment and walk down the last few steps. He takes the hand I stretch out for him and moves me into a playful twirl.

As I turn, my dark purple silk dress (or rather, _Lolly Faversham's_ dark purple silk dress) lightly swishes against my legs. It is truly a scrumptious garment and when I don't think too hard about how old and expensive it is, I _almost_ dare to breathe.

There are footsteps on the stairs and moments later, Mum appears on the landing, pausing briefly for dramatic effect. She's wearing a floor-length cream dress made from raw silk, with her shoes and clutch a dark forest green. Her hair is pulled into an up-do and she has a string of pearls softly gleaming against her skin. In short, she looks spectacular.

Dad seems to think so, too. If he was smiling before, now his face is positively shining with admiration. Mum beams back at him and seriously, the sweetness of it very nearly enough to give me toothache.

I give them a few moments to make eyes at each other, before clearing my throat loudly. They turn to look at me, Dad grinning over both ears and Mum winking conspiratorially. I roll my eyes at them both.

Mum comes down the stairs. "You look lovely," she tells me sincerely.

"So do you," I reply, meaning every word.

Raising her hand, Mum touches the rose brooch I used to pull my hair back on one side. In keeping with the style of the dress, I styled my hair in long, glossy waves, with 'just' the brooch as an adornment. (But what a 'just' it is!) It meant sleeping in rollers and heat-curling my hair today, which was a pain, but the effect is as desired. Luckily, when it comes to hair and makeup, my fingers are still as nimble as they ever were.

"Is this real?" asks Mum, indicating the brooch.

"Ken's great-aunt loaned it to me," I answer, a little defensively.

"So it's real," Mum deduces.

The brooch _is_ real. It is, in fact, as real as it gets. Easily as long as my thumb, it depicts a blooming rose and a bud on a stem. The craftsmanship, as far as I can tell, is exquisite. The stem and leaves are set with white diamonds, while the actual flowers are made up from small diamonds in a light-yellow hue. There are also two larger yellow diamonds, both easily the size of my thumbnail. Even without the provenance, I wouldn't want to estimate its worth and _with_ the provenance… well, it's very nearly priceless.

"Who made it?" asks Dad, eyes twinkling. "Tiffany? Cartier? Black, Starr, Frost? Gorham?"

Of course. Trust him to throw that song at me. (I didn't even know Marilyn Monroe's singing was his cup of tea!)

I pull a grimace. "No, and not Harry Winston either."

"It was worth a try," remarks Dad, chuckling to himself.

"It wasn't a good one," I inform him. "This brooch was made by Faberge."

Mum frowns at me. "Fabergé as in Fabergé Eggs?"

"Uh… yes. Exactly as in Fabergé Eggs," I admit. "It belonged to Ken's great-great-grandmother."

"And who would that be?" asks Mum. Her expression tells me that she already has an idea.

"Ah…" I hesitate, but know it's no good. "That would be Empress Alexandra of Russia. Her husband gave her the brooch on the day of their coronation. She later gifted it to her daughter as a wedding present."

Dad blinks at me. "Her husband… the tsar?"

I shrug, then nod. Instinctively, my hand flies upward to touch the brooch, but I divert it just in time to fiddle with the sizeable yellow diamond studs in my ears instead.

Mum steps closer to peer at the brooch. "So, this belonged to a Russian Empress?" she asks, a strange note in her voice. "And now you're wearing it?"

"It's a loan!" I repeat, quite as if that changed anything.

Mum makes a thoughtful sound, before stepping back again. "It's a beautiful piece," she assures me with a lop-sided smile. "And you wear it well."

"It's terrifying," I admit, grimacing slightly. "This entire get-up is. I keep thinking I will fall into the drinks table and ruin it all."

My fears, of course, are not helped by the fact that nothing of what I'm wearing is actually mine. Even the sparkly shoes and matching clutch are loaned from Di and I know they cost her a pretty penny, too.

"You won't fall into the drinks table," Dad promises loyally.

"You're too graceful for that," agrees Mum and rubs my shoulder comfortingly.

From their lips to God's ear!

Gathering myself together, I pull up a cheerful smile, banning all mental images of destroyed drinks tables and ruined silk dresses. With a quick look at the clock hanging on the wall, I ask, "Shall we get going? Our car should be here already."

"We have a car?" wonders Dad, as he helps Mum into her coat, before shrugging on his own.

I pull on my white opera gloves first (I adore the decadence of them!), before slipping into my winter coat as well. It really _is_ mine, too, which is strangely reassuring.

"Ken's friend Hew is driving with his wife's family and offered us the use of his car and driver," I explain to my parents as we leave the house.

"That is nice of him," remarks Mum, a little surprised.

"It sure is," I agree. Opening the gate and stepping out onto the street, I immediately spot a sleek dark limousine waiting by the curb. The driver stands next to it, but springs into action upon seeing us and proceeds to open one of the rear doors.

Also springing into action are the photographers gathered on the other side of the street. They know what day today is, of course, so they're out in full force. Ignoring the flashes and the shouts, I slip into the car and slide along the backseat to make room for Mum. Dad takes the passenger seat in front.

"To Buckingham Palace, Miss Blythe?" asks the driver, once we're all safely in the car and the doors securely locked.

"To Buckingham Palace," I confirm. "Thank you."

He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and nods to acknowledge my thanks. Starting the car, he pulls away from the curb and carefully drives along the road. Dimly, I hear the shouts of disappointments from the photographers behind the tinted windows, but I can't say I feel very sorry for them. (Though the vain part of me _does_ hope they got a good shot. If I have to be in tomorrow's papers at all, it would at least be fair if I looked good in them.)

London is as congested as usual, so we need a while before the gates of Buckingham Palace come into view. Gathered in front of them is a sizable number of people, despite the typically rainy London weather. Today's double birthday party has been widely reported, so I guess they're trying to get a glimpse of people arriving. The tinted windows prevent anyone from getting too good a look at Mum and me, but Dad and the poor driver have quite a few pictures taken of them before we drive through the gates and into the safety of the palace grounds. The guard at the gate peers into the car once and, upon recognising me, waves us through.

I direct the driver to enter the central courtyard and stop the car under the porte-cochère for us to get out and into the building without getting wet.

"I never realised the palace was so big behind the façade," Mum comments and looks through the windows of the porte-cochère at the courtyard.

"They usually are," I reply, shrugging. "Kensington Palace looks positively small from the front, but it's really this huge complex of buildings."

"That is where Ken lives, isn't it?" Dad wants to know.

"Yes," I confirm, "KP is where Ken lives."

Ken invited my parents over for dinner at Wren House last night, cooking up quite a storm beforehand. He considered asking one of the several cooks in his family's employ to do the cooking, but ultimately decided to do it himself. It meant that the food wasn't _as_ fancy, but it gave the evening a personal touch. (Besides, fancy food never fills you up anyway. You eat the caviar with the champagne foam topping, but still find yourself dropping into a chip shop or getting some curry on your way home.)

A liveried footman – I'm pretty sure his name is Paul – holds open the entrance door for us and nods when I smile at him in passing. The Grand Hall and Marble Hall don't evoke much of a reaction from me anymore, but I can see Mum and Dad looking around with interest. I direct them up the stairs, pointing out some paintings and knickknacks as I do.

"You really do know your way around this place," Mum observes after I introduced her to the painting of Victoria, Duchess of Kent, who was the mother of Queen Victoria.

"I'm here quite regularly, though mostly over in the private quarters," I explain. "But you should know that! I _told_ you I have dinner with Ken's family once or twice a week."

"We do know that," soothes Mum as we ascend the stairs. "It's only…"

"To see it is different from just knowing it," finishes Dad for her. "Even for your mother and her very active imagination."

Mum looks at him over her shoulder, her expression playfully indignant. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean to imply by that!"

"Nothing." Dad grins. "Nothing at all, Anne-girl."

With a huff, Mum turns around again – and finds herself face-to-face with Roman Marble Albert. "Huh? Who is he?"

"Fetching fellow," jokes Dad.

"This is Prince Consort Albert, husband of Queen Victoria," I introduce. "And before anyone asks, no, I don't know why he's in this get-up. Apparently, he just fancied having a statue of himself dressed as a Roman solider." I nod at the statue's counterpart. "This over there is Victoria herself."

Dad's eye are twinkling with amusement as he asks Mum, "What do you say, Anne? Should we also have matching statues made of us? Maybe with more of a Greek design?"

"Not much of a difference between Roman and Greek," I mutter. Mum doesn't even deign Dad's suggestion with an answer, just giving him a _look_ that makes it easy to imagine what it was like when they first met at that anti-war rally, all those years ago. (Luckily for Dad and his head, there's no protest sign in sight.)

Leaving the Guard Room with its marble statues behind, we enter the Green Drawing Room – and are immediately ambushed by Tatty.

"Rilla!" she exclaims brightly. "And Rilla's parents!"

Immediately, two dozen heads swivel around to look at us. I smile awkwardly at no-one in particular, before Tatty reclaims my attention.

"You are a vision," she declares, placing both hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm's length to survey my appearance. "We chose well. The dress is gorgeous on you."

"It's a beautiful dress," I agree. "And so is yours." It might not be vintage, but Tatty's red dress is both very pretty and not at all inconspicuous.

Tatty waves her hand airily. "It will do."

Turning to Mum and Dad, she thrusts her hand out for them to shake. "And you're the Drs Blythe. I love your hair!" The last is obviously addressed at Mum. Dad has a good head of hair for his age, but it's not spectacular enough to evoke such strong feelings as love in anyone who isn't Mum or a star-struck intern at his hospital.

Mum touches her hair with a small smile. "Thank you. That is nice of you to say, Miss…"

"That's Tatty," I introduce, deciding not to bother with titles. I know Tatty doesn't care to be addressed as Lady.

"Oh!" Recognition lights up Dad's face. "We've heard a lot about you."

"And I about you," asserts Tatty with an easy smile. "If Rilla is to be believed, you're the best parents to ever –" Looking over at me, she suddenly breaks off and whistles softly. "Look at _that_! Someone let you play with the jewellery box!"

My hand flies up to touch the rose brooch. "Great-Aunt Tanya lent me this. The earrings are Leslie's. She said they were a gift from some Arabian sheik, but that she's never worn them."

"No." Tatty shakes her head. "Everyone knows that the only coloured stones she wears are rubies. That sheik ought to have done his research."

"Or his people should have," I amend.

Tatty shrugs, then nods. "Or them." Her attention, however, is already drawn elsewhere. "Look, there's Katie."

When I follow her gaze, I do, indeed, spy Katie on the other side of the room, standing with Adam and Chris. Adam is his usual dorky self in a slightly too large tuxedo, whereas Chris is so dapper that he looks like he's auditioning for a lead role in an adaption of _The Great Gatsby_. Katie wears a light green gown and a small diamond tiara with a geometric pattern – and is it just me or does her face look a little fuller than the last time I saw her?

I turn to Tatty and open my mouth, but she just grins and shrugs. "I don't know anything either."

Well. I guess we'll have to wait and see.

"Do you want to meet some people?" I ask my parents, shelving any questions regarding Katie for the time being.

"My parents are around here somewhere. You've met them, haven't you?" Tatty wants to know, looking at Mum and Dad.

"Oh, yes," confirms Mum. "Your parents were so kind as to invite us for tea the other day. They're lovely."

That they are. Rolly and Genie have been utterly kind and generous to me this past year and they extended that kindness to my parents without hesitation.

With Tatty and me walking in front, we make our way through the room, stopping here and there to greet people and make small talk. (Tatty, I can't help noticing, deftly steers us away from Mark. I wonder what happened there?) My parents are no novices when it comes to working a room, so they easily shake hands and smile and talk, even when confronted with nobles and ministers and royals.

The real stars of the show leave us waiting for a while, causing Tatty to grumble in annoyance Luckily, at least there's a buffet prepared to keep us from going hungry (and I even forgive them the inclusion of champagne foam). With our plates laden with delicacies, we make our way to the Music Room. We're just chatting with Steve, Fiona, Pamela and her husband Herman, when a footman by name of Scott motions for us to convene in the Picture Gallery.

"Finally," mutters Tatty.

The royal family know how to make an entrance, you have to hand them that. Only when all guests are gathered along both sides of the Picture Gallery, with Owen's siblings and their families in front of everyone, does the door to the small Ante Room open for the main royal family to enter.

Owen and Leslie are first, he in the customary tuxedo, she in a spectacular midnight blue gown and the rubies-and-diamonds Strawberry Leaf Tiara that she told me once belonged to Queen Victoria. Their children are behind them, Teddy in yet another tuxedo and Persis in a patterned evening dress and a sparkly diamond bandeau tiara.

My eyes, however, are immediately drawn to Ken and he, too, searches the room until his gaze lands on me. When it does, a brilliant smile appears on his face. I mirror it instinctively. From somewhere, a memory floats to the surface of my mind, reminding me of the day when he told Mrs Weisz that Kenneth means _handsome_. He does his name justice, today more than ever, and there's a little flutter in my chest when he comes closer.

Nodding and smiling, Leslie and Owen pass by their guests, who bow and curtsey in return. (It feels a little like a ceremony from bygone times.) They slow their steps briefly to bestow wider smiles and murmured greetings upon my parents and me, but don't dwell with us, nor anywhere else. This is not the time or place for individual conversations.

Ken, following after his parents, grins when he stops next to our group and holds out an arm for me.

I take a deep breath.

"Are you good on your own?" I ask my parents, feeling a little anxious.

"We're fine," Dad assures me.

"You go ahead," Mum encourages.

"I'll look after them," promises Tatty and nudges me forward.

So, I step from the line, link my arm through Ken's and fall into step beside him. My dress swishes lightly around my legs and the brooch suddenly feels heavy in my hair. I'm aware of every step I take and every pair of eyes on me (the _girlfriend_ as part of the procession!). For a moment, I feel nervous, but then Ken reaches up to cover my hand on his arm with his own and the warmth of his touch calms me. Looking up, I find him smiling gently and return the smile, even if mine feels a little shaky.

With Persis and Teddy behind us, we follow Leslie and Owen to the Ball Room, which honestly looks like something straight out of a Disney movie tonight. It is here that Owen is handed a microphone, tapping it once for attention when everyone has trickled in to fill the room.

"Good evening," he greets the assembled guests. "On behalf of my family, I want to extend my warmest wishes to you and thank you for coming here tonight to celebrate this milestone occasion with us."

His eyes find Leslie's and he smiles lovingly. "I know I speak for everyone here, when I wish my beloved wife a very happy birthday. Leslie, my darling, I still remember the day I first saw you, because from that moment, you were the only woman I could see. You're as caring and as beautiful as you were then and sometimes, when I look at you, it's hard to imagine it wasn't just yesterday that we met. I wouldn't want to miss the intervening years for the world though and I can't possibly express how grateful I am that you chose me to be the man to spend those years with. Here is to many more!"

Awww.

I dab at my eyes with my fingertips and when I glance around the room, I notice I'm not the only one. Leslie certainly has tears shining in her eyes when she reaches out to take Owen's hand between both of hers. A moment passes as the two gaze at each other and they might as well be the only two people in the room.

Finally, without letting go of Leslie's hand, Owen looks up at Ken and is eyes lose none of their tenderness. "We're a few days too late for his actual birthday, but as you all know we're here to celebrate my oldest son as well. I also remember the day I first met _him_ , and while I can't deny that I have never been as terrified in my life, before or since, the moment I first held him was also the one of the happiest moments of my life. Ken, I feel incredibly privileged to have been allowed to watch you grow into the compassionate, clever and kind man that you've become and I couldn't be prouder of you."

Awwwwww.

Leslie is crying outright now and I'm also blinking furiously against the tears threatening to fall. Beside me, I notice Ken is breathing a little heavier and clutching my hand a little tighter. On my other side, Teddy yelps quietly when Persis digs her fingers into his arm.

"I hope everyone enjoyed the food," Owen continues, his tone now much lighter, "and I don't know about you, but I think a good dinner is best followed by some activity and what better option could there be than dancing?"

On cue, the musicians in the corner strike up a waltz (at least I _think_ it's a waltz) and Owen kisses Leslie's hand gallantly before leading her into the middle of the room. Everyone else retreats to the side to give them space – everyone but Ken who is, instead, leading me forward as well.

Does he intend to…?

I dig my heels in.

"Ken!" I hiss. "Kenneth! _No_! Stop! _Ken_!"

He turns, his expression quizzical. "Why not?" he asks.

"I can't dance!" I insist. "Not like this!"

"But we practiced it," he reminds me, gently tugging me forward again. "You dance beautifully."

We did, in fact, practice ballroom dancing these past weeks, with Leslie serving as a model for me to copy and with Great-Aunt Tanya providing running commentary from a settee. I managed not to trip over my own feet by the end of it, but…

"That was different!" I insist. "There are _people_ here! I will fall over and make a fool of myself!"

"You won't fall over," promises Ken as he draws me into his arms. "I won't let you."

His eyes crinkle into a smile and it's almost be enough to reassure me, but then I make the mistake of looking up at Leslie and Owen, who are sweeping gracefully around the floor in elaborate circles. Immediately, I freeze.

Ken has followed my gaze. "They're show-offs," he declares. "Don't mind them. We'll do it our way. _Slowly_."

And we do. His parents might fancy themselves to be the next Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, but Ken and I keep it simple, not moving very much at all. When I find that our way of dancing is unlikely to make me fall over _or_ make a fool out of myself, I slowly start to relax.

"Has anyone told you how beautiful you look tonight?" Ken's voice is low against my ear.

" _Several_ people," I inform him as I look up to meet his eyes.

"Hmm," hums Ken, "did they also tell you how incredibly sexy you are?"

That makes me laugh softly. "No, you're the first."

He looks rather pleased with himself and I shake my head at him, but I can't help smiling.

Ken carefully turns us, his eyes never leaving my face. " _I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair_ ," he murmurs, holding my gaze.

That makes me laugh, though judging from his slightly offended expression that's _not_ the desired reaction. "Well, that is nice for you, but unfortunately, I have a minor in literature," I tease. "I know where you stole that line."

He considers me for a second, then leans forward until his lips are right next to my ear. "Or maybe," he drawls, his breath making my skin prickle, "I was counting on you knowing the rest of the poem?"

I do know the rest of the poem.

And _because_ I know it and because his closeness is sending shivers down my spine and because my face is suddenly feeling warm and because there are still hundreds of people watching us, I move closer and hide my face against his neck. The laugh rumbles through his body and thus, through mine.

 _Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon._

(Let no-one say I don't know my Neruda!)

Ken draws me closer still and kisses my temple. Breathing in deeply, I grip his hand a little tighter. I turn my face from the safety of his skin, but don't move away, instead leaning my head against his shoulder.

 _I love you only because it's you I love._

We dance in silence for a few moments and I just begin to let my thoughts drift, when I become aware of something else drifting as well – specifically Ken's hand along my bare back. I look up and raise an eyebrow at him.

"This is a beautiful dress," he remarks casually.

"And it would look good on your bedroom floor?" I add, grinning at the contrast of the clunky pickup line mere moments after he quoted Pablo Neruda at me. "Come on, you can do better than that!"

"It would look good on _any_ floor," Ken insists. "Especially –" His finger traces along the seam of my dress and his voice drops lower "– because I can't imagine you're wearing much underneath it."

Immediately, my mind flashes back to the gruesome fifteen minutes I spent squeezing myself into a cleverly cut spandex monstrosity – and I promptly dissolve into giggles. "Oh, you sweet summer child!"

"What? What?" Ken frowns in confusion.

"You're just – so like a man," I manage to get out between laughs. "You men really think we wake up like this, don't you?"

"I have had the fortune of waking up next to you many times," Ken declares grandly, but with twinkling eyes, "and while you don't always look like _this_ , you're always beautiful."

"Flattery, flattery," I sing-song, but in reality, I don't mind the compliment at all. Just the opposite, in fact.

"Well deserved," replies Ken cheekily and moves me into a little twirl.

I gasp in surprise, but manage to stay on my feet long enough for him to catch me again. His arm securely circles around my waist, his hand holds mine tightly and his gaze is warm and loving as we continue to sway to the music.

 _Because I don't know any other way of loving  
but this, in which there is no I or you._

It should feel surreal – me, wearing priceless jewels and an expensive dress, dancing the night away in a palace, in the arms of my very own prince – but it doesn't. In fact, it feels exactly right.

It feels like my very own Cinderilla moment, only that it doesn't end at midnight.

 _It's today, it's today._

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'American Pie' (written by Don McLean, released by him in 1971)._

* * *

 _To Anne:_  
 _Hello and thanks for being in touch and your kind words! I'm very glad to hear you're liking the story so far and hope you will continue to enjoy it. I have quite a few twists and turns coming up, so there should be a lot more chapters to read and - hopefully - enjoy =)._

 _To Guest:  
You'll laugh, but before starting to write one, I never touched modern stories either ;). I feel very honoured that my story convinced you despite ite modern setting _and _made you review! (It's much appreciated, too. Reviews make any writer's day!) I promise I have every intention of finishing this story - though not any time soon - and I'm pretty good about updating, too. I post a new chapter every Wednesday at 10pm MET (that's 4pm EST for North American readers) pretty much like clockwork, so if you want to, look out for updates on all Wednesdays. In the meantime, I hope you will continue to enjoy the story and thank you for your praise and very kind words!_


	76. All your dreams are on their way

_Glen St Mary, Canada  
December 2014_

 **All your dreams are on their way**

"It's gorgeous, Di!" I proclaim and zoom in on the super elegant grey dress Di has chosen for her wedding.

Di shrugs, but I can see she's pleased.

"Let me see!" demands Joy and plucks the phone from my hand.

Nan, who's already seen the dress, inclines her head. "Are you sure you don't want to wear white?" she asks her twin.

"Absolutely positive!" Di nods firmly. "White washes me out and ivory makes me look jaundiced. Besides…" She pauses and looks at me pointedly. " _Besides_ , the tradition to wear white to weddings goes back to Queen Victoria and _I'm_ not the princess-to-be in our middle."

I stick out my tongue at her. Di grins.

To Nan, she adds, "If it makes you feel better, Nia is wearing white. Here." She takes the phone back from Joy, taps on it a few times and holds it up for us to see a picture of a white dress. While Di's dress is head-to-toe lace, this one is deceptively simple, only revealing its unusual, almost geometric cut at second glance. It's exactly Nia's taste just like the grey lace is right up Di's alley.

"No veils, I presume?" Joy wants to know and leans back against the headboard of Di's bed.

"Goodness, no!" Di grimaces. "A veil is just a sign of a man's authority over a woman. For one, there's no man involved in this. For another… ugh."

"Veils look pretty though," argues Nan. Her smile is sweet, but when I catch her eye, she winks conspiratorially. Clearly, she's trying to get a rise out of her twin.

Di, however, doesn't take the bait. Instead, she shakes her head mournfully and declares, "And here I was, hoping Rilla was the only one we lost to a world of superficiality and paternalism."

"I resent that," I tell her mildly and stretch my arms above my head. Nan reaches over to poke my side – just because, I think. I glare at her and wrap my arms protectively around myself. Nan grins.

"Who will be your witnesses?" Joy asks Di while rolling her eyes at Nan's and my antics.

"Oh!" I raise my hand. "I know that! Nan and Seraphina, right? _Right_?"

"Right," confirms Di and pats my head teasingly. "Well done, you."

I wrinkle my nose and smooth out my hair. "It was a no-brainer," I inform her.

"Know-it-all," mutters Joy, outwardly disapproving but with laughing eyes.

I pull a face at her. (What _is_ this? Pick on Rilla-day?)

I'm saved from further digs by my assembled sisters when there's a knock on the door and Shirley sticks his head in.

"Shirley! Do come in, little brother!" invites Nan, before he's even had a chance to state his purpose.

Our littlest brother looks positively horrified at that suggestion. "Uh… no. I mean, thanks, but, um… Mum sent me. She finished her call to Jem and wanted me to remind you that it's time for church."

(Jem and Faith, it must be understood, are still in Uganda, saving lives. They profess to love the work, the country, the people and the adventure, but I think Mum is stilly quietly hoping they might return home soon. Judging from the last time I skyped them, I don't much fancy her chances.)

Shirley has apparently said his piece and withdraws without waiting for a reply, quickly walking backwards and letting the door fall shut behind him. We sisters exchange amused glances.

"You've got to wonder what he thought we'd do to him," remarks Di and raises both eyebrows.

"Girl talk," guesses Joy and shrugs. "As a Y chromosome carrier, he's genetically programmed to fear it."

"True," I agree and get up from the bed. "They like to pretend they can handle it, but they really can't."

Nan nods solemnly. "Amen." She swings her legs to the floor and grabs Di to drag her up as well. "Come on. Church."

Di grumbles, but eventually follows Nan to the door I hold open for them, with Joy making up the rear. Downstairs, we bundle into our coats and join the rest of the family for the annual walk to church.

I find myself walking with Grandpa John and Grandmother Marilla, trying to answer the latter's questions about the King and Queen in a way that doesn't give too much away but still satisfies her interest in first-hand knowledge about her royal family. Grandmother Marilla is no gossip, but her best friend Rachel Lynde is and unfortunately for me, Rachel has the rather unique talent of sniffing out exactly the one nugget of information someone is trying to hide. If I asked Grandmother Marilla to keep something secret, she'd surely find a way, but it's easier just to curate my answers and make them Rachel-friendly from the beginning.

Thus, I'm currently trying to navigate the thorny question of Leslie's regular disappearances, when Walter appears at my side. "Rilla?" he asks quietly.

Grateful for the distraction, I turn towards him. "Yes? Anything I can do?"

"Perhaps." Walter nods discreetly to a group of people standing by the side of the path. At first, I don't know what he means, but then I spot a young girl clutching a posy. She seems to be about Izzie's age. When she notices me looking, she blushes and squirms, but then squares her shoulders and looks back up.

"Miss Rilla?" she asks, her voice a little squeaky from nervousness.

Letting my gaze drift upwards, I look quizzically at the woman I perceive to be the girl's mother. When she inclines her head into a small nod, I leave my grandparents and brother behind to step closer towards the little girl.

My mind is already going a mile a minute.

There are photographers here, because of course they are. I already saw them earlier and put on a neutrally pleasant expression for them, so they could take their pictures and be done with it. Unfortunately, they haven't left yet, probably on the look-out for something _more_. Me accepting flowers from a little girl is, paradoxically, just the moment they've been waiting for. Because what would be an innocent gesture of friendliness will surely be spun into a story about how I have ideas above my statue and am already mirroring the real royal family. They, after all, are greeted by children bearing flowers everywhere they go, and if I'm photographed in a similar situation, there'll surely be someone suggesting I planned this.

All those thoughts and then some are running through my head while I cross the few meters between me and the girl with the posy. When I reach her, I have devised a plan.

"Hello," I greet her, smiling, and crouch down in front of her.

She smiles shyly, letting her hair fall forward to hide behind. A moment passes, before she wordlessly thrusts the posies at me.

"Are those for me?" I ask, trying to sound equally surprised and pleased. "How kind of you! Such beautiful flowers!"

The girl peers at me through her curtain of hair, her smile slowly growing bigger.

I pluck a single flower from the small bouquet and push it behind my ear. Gathering the others together, I appraise the length of their stems and find, to my relief, that they're long enough for a floral wreath. It'll have to be a small one, but it'll do.

"Do you want to tell me your name?" I ask the girl, as my fingers blindly start working on weaving the flowers into a wreath. I haven't done this in years, but I made many a flower crown in my youth and my fingers still know the movements.

"Madison," answers the girl quietly.

"Hello, Madison," I greet her formally. "I am very honoured to meet you."

She giggles, still somewhat shyly, but also visibly pleased. "Are you a real princess?" she blurts out, probably emboldened by the fact that I haven't bitten her.

The question, of course, is trickier than anything Grandmother Marilla has asked me all day. The easy answer, of course, would be, 'No, I'm not.' It would also be the truth. It would, however, disappoint little Madison and I find myself not wanting to disappoint her.

Briefly, my eyes flicker upwards to her mother, who answers with a lopsided smile and a mouthed, "Sorry."

Looks like I'm on my own.

"See, Madison," I begin slowly, still trying to order my thoughts. "The lovely thing about being a princess is that every girl can be one."

Madison stares at me, wide-eyes. " _Really_?"

"Yes, really," I confirm, even though I have literally no idea where I'm going with this. I'm making this up as I speak. "The thing is… the thing is that being a princess isn't about who your daddy is or who you marry. It's about what you _do_."

The curtain of hair lifts slightly as Madison raises her head to look at me curiously. "What do I have to do?" she asks, her voice a little breathless.

Ah, drat. I backed myself into that corner all on my own, didn't I?

"Behaving like a princess means you should be kind to others and that you should try to do your best, in school and out of it, and…" I pause for a moment. "And it means that you should never let anyone tell you that you can't be what you want to be. Even a princess."

Madison frowns in concentration as she considers my words, giving them much more sincerity than they're due, considering that I'm totally improvising here.

"Oh," I add, struck by a sudden thought, "and a princess always eats her vegetables."

In reply, Madison wrinkles her nose. "Really?" she grumbles. Above us, I hear her mother chuckling softly.

"Really," I answer, suppressing a smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't make the rules."

With a heavy sigh, Madison nods. "Okay." She's not enthused, but apparently willing to face even spinach when it leads her further on the path of princessing.

"I know you can do it," I assure her. "And because of that, I now declare you Princess Madison." Holding up the flower crown I've wrought, I carefully place it on Madison's head. Her expression is adorably solemn, her fingers flying upwards to touch the flowers.

For a moment, I'm not sure whether she might be sad that I repurposed the posy she wanted to offer me, but it doesn't even seem to register. Instead, she suddenly beams at me – and it looks exactly like a beam of sunlight, reminding me why the phrase is as it is in the first place.

"Thank you, Princess Rilla!" she declares, before suddenly turning on her heel and running off, loudly exclaiming, "Look what I got, Daddy!"

Looking after her, I slowly get back to my feet and come face to face with Madison's mother. "Was that alright?" I ask her.

"It was very kind of you," she replies, appearing sincere.

I shrug, feeling a little uncomfortable. "It was nothing."

"She saw someone give the Queen flowers on TV some weeks ago. When she learned that we'd be spending the holidays close to where you live, she started pestering us to get her a posy to give to you today," explains the mother.

"Your daughter is adorable," I tell her, both because it's true and because it's harmless.

"She is," agrees her mother, smiling. "And if she actually eats her vegetables from now on, you've done us a great favour."

I laugh. "Fingers crossed." The mother nods and joins in my laughter.

From behind me, I can hear Dad calling, "Rilla? The service is starting in a few minutes."

"Right, that's my cue," I remark apologetically. "Have a nice day and Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," she replies, raising her hand in a wave. Madison, I notice, is a good few meters further along the path and chattering a mile a minute at a man holding a toddler. As she talks, she clutches her flower wreath tightly.

When I turn, I find that most of my family has already entered the church. There's just Dad standing on the steps and smiling at me, Dog Monday sitting patiently next to him. Somewhere behind me, I know, are the photographers, having snapped dozens of pictures of my encounter with young Madison. I can only hope that they will interpret my improvised handling of the situation kindly and not as me pretending to be a princess when I'm not.

Children handing out posies of flowers is, after all, a tried and tested tradition of royal life, as I am again reminded when, a while later, we've all gathered back in the living room of Ingleside to watch the King's Speech. Preceding it is, as always, a report documenting the royal family's walk to church at Balmoral and of course it includes the inevitable children and their flowers. There's enough of them that Leslie and the other women have to hand them on to staff to have their hands free for the next bunch. Comparatively, I had it easy with just Madison and her small posy.

The TV camera pans from Leslie accepting some flowers (I couldn't begin to guess which type they are) to Ken, who's shaking the hand of an elderly man in a wheelchair. When he notices the camera, he looks up and suddenly flashes a brilliant smile, of the kind he wouldn't usually give a TV crew. It's gone as fast as it came and he turns back to greet a lady in a brown coat.

Shaking my head slightly, I smile to myself.

"What was that?" asks Mum, eyeing me with interest.

"Oh." I shrug, laughing softly. "He knows we're watching and said he'd find a way to say hello. I guess that was it."

"Hello, Ken," cries Izzie delightedly and waves at the screen. When the rest of us laugh at her antics, she grins, clearly pleased with herself.

"There's you, Aunt Rilla," remarks Jake without reacting to his sister and points at the TV.

Indeed, there's me. Specifically, there's a picture of me talking to Madison, followed by another one that shows me placing the flower wreath on her head.

"Prince Kenneth's girlfriend, Rilla Blythe, was also presented with flowers by a local girl on her walk to church in Canada today," comments the news presenter on TV.

"As we can see," adds her companion, "Miss Blythe created a flower crown for the young girl to wear. Sources who stood close enough to hear their conversation said that Miss Blythe told the girl that everyone could be a princess if they believed in themselves and ate their spinach."

(Close enough, I guess.)

Instinctively, I grimace, as I wait for the other shoe to drop. Surely, they will now accuse me of exhibiting airs and thinking myself more important than I am. I'm used to the accusation, so they're tiresome more than hurtful, but –

"Those witnessing the moment agree that Miss Blythe exhibited a lot of tact and kindness, making a young girl very happy on Christmas Day" continues the first news presenter.

I sit up straighter.

Did I hear right?

"What's with the sucking up?" asks Shirley, voicing my very thoughts.

I look over at him and shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it's just that the media works in mysterious ways?

"No, it makes sense," disagrees Joy, inclining her head thoughtfully.

It _does_?

My confusion must have shown on my face, because Dan takes it upon himself to explain his wife's train of thought. "What Joy means is that they're trying to curry favour. They've recognised that in the long run, being nice to you will be worth more to them than a quick headline."

Huh.

Fancy that.

"Be that as it may, if they hope that I'll be nice to them in return, they're sorely mistaken," I declare, folding my arms in front of my chest.

"Nor should you be nice to them." Grandma Bertha catches my eye and nods firmly to back me up. "They are an insult to any self-respecting journalist."

Trust her to know.

"I think we can all agree on that," remarks Mum and smiles kindly. "But I'm not sorry to see them being a little nicer to Rilla, no matter the reason for it."

"No kidding," I mutter, pulling a face at the memory of everything they wrote before they decided that there might be a benefit to no longer calling me a slag and a gold digger.

"Do we think –" begins Nan, but we never find out what she wanted to ask, because in that moment, the TV program switches over to the King's Speech and Nan is shushed into silence by Grandmother Marilla.

As befitting the year, the first topic that Owen addresses after the last notes of God Save the King have faded away, is the Great War.

"On this day, exactly a century ago, soldiers from two warring nations came together in No Man's Land to celebrate Christmas," he says solemnly. "It was a short truce in a war that was thought to be over by Christmas, but raged for more than four years and cost millions of lives."

Several black-and-white photographs of soldiers appear on the screen. Some photos look mildly familiar and given the context, I imagine they were probably taken during that same Christmas Truce, all the way back in 1914.

"This year, many people from all over the world came together to remember the men and women who served in the Great War," Owen continues. "All over the country and all throughout the Commonwealth, remembrance events were held, bringing people together to honour those who served and those who died."

Another montage flashes over the screen, this one showing all kinds of different remembrance events. Most of the pictures show normal people, a lot of them soldiers, but mixed in with the others are also photographs of the royal family. There's a very nice one of Owen and Leslie walking among the poppy installation at the Tower (Ken and I went to see it one evening and it gives you shivers), one of Ken at an army base meeting veterans, another one showing Persis opening an exhibition focusing on Animals in War and one depicting Teddy's visit to a primary school that had won a competition about how to best honour local war heroes (he told me what they did, but it was in spring and I'm afraid I forgot the details). Finally, there's a short video of Remembrance Day in November, with all the royals out in full force.

With the wreathes placed, the camera cuts away and back to Owen. "We remember and we honour these men and women for their bravery, their sacrifice and the futures they gave up. We must, however, be careful not to turn them into symbols of the glory of war. They were soldiers and they fought a war more horrendous than the world had seen before, but they longed for peace. These were great men and women and I know we stand together in admiration of them, but to us, their sacrifice must be a stark reminder of not only the futility of war but the importance of peace."

Frowning in thought, I watch TV Owen's insistent face as he delivers his message. It's… curiously direct, even political, for a king who generally steers clear from voicing potentially controversial opinions. For him to speak so plainly here means that this is something close to his heart.

"We must never forget the fragility of peace, how easily it is lost and how hard it is won," implores Owen. "We will not forget the sacrifice of those who served and we will not forget that during their struggles, they strove not for war but for peace. I firmly believe that the best, maybe the only way to honour them is to do everything we can to preserve peace and ensure that there will never again be a generation called up to sacrifice what they did. "

The image of Owen gives way to a series of pictures, all in black and white, all of them close-ups of Great War soldiers. It could have been cheesy (and it would have been, had someone given in to the obvious urge of underlaying it with kitschy music), but the stark silence that accompanies the pictures somehow drives the message across and drives it straight to the heart.

"My father fought in the Great War," Grandpa John remarks quietly. "He never spoke about it, not until I myself returned from Europe many years later. His older brother also fought and he didn't come back."

"I never knew that," replies Di. She looks at the rest of us siblings, but we mostly just shrug and shake our heads. We know about Grandmother Marilla's brother Matthew dying in the 1940s, but that Grandpa John's uncle was killed in the previous war is apparently news to most of us.

"Oh, yes." Grandpa John nods. "My father didn't start speaking of him and their shared childhood until he himself was getting elderly – just like we are now, aren't we, darling?" He looks at Grandmother Marilla with that twinkle in his eyes that he passed on to Dad and from him, to Jem.

Grandmother Marilla, who looked a little melancholy just moments earlier – likely remembering her own brother – now frowns and tuts at him. "Really, John!"

Grandpa John grins and winks. His apparent goal was to distract his wife and it looks like he achieved it.

On the TV screen, Owen now segues into a segment focusing on Ebola, which has all of us thinking of Jem and Faith. They might be on the other side of the continent from the unfolding crisis, but they're still closer than anyone else is and frankly, this virus is as scary as any war is, maybe particularly so because it's invisible. (I know Mum made Jem promise that they'd steer clear. It's not like her to intervene in our lives like that, but in this case, I wholly approve.)

Following the Ebola segment, Owen's speech returns closer to home as he talks about his historical visit to Ireland this spring – apparently, the first time a British monarch visited the Green Isle since their independence. (I'm not sure my Irish ancestors would have been pleased.) Next, he goes over some political developments and cultural events in the UK and the Commonwealth, before finally focusing on his family. (I don't think it's a surprise to anyone to learn that this is the bit I look forward to the most.)

"As a family, we experienced several milestones this year that we're very grateful for, chief of them the wedding of my niece Katie and her Adam", he tells his audience (subjects?) and as he speaks, pictures of the events he mentions appear on the screen. "My wife and I were also very proud to see our eldest son successfully finish his pilot training in May, which we all know is a matter close to his heart. In the summer, we felt equal pride and joy when we watched our younger son gain a master's degree in Advanced Sustainable Design, which we know he will use well for the benefit of all. Last, but certainly not least, we were excited to share in our daughter's success at this year's World Equestrian Games, where we watched the British team win a silver medal. Important matters kept me in London, but I can assure you I was glued to the screen, like any proud father would have been." He smiles conspiratorially at the camera and garners some chuckles in our living-room – and probably not only there.

"The year concluded with the milestone birthdays of my beloved wife and son," Owen continues. "Personally, I was very grateful for this opportunity to celebrate two of the people closest to my heart who, together, have made my life many times brighter since the days I first laid eyes on them."

Owen's image fades from the screen, to be replaced by a video montage of that birthday party in November. I find that I recognise most of the guests and even spot both myself and my parents several times. There's a particularly nice shot of me dancing with Owen, with Mum and Dad mere feet away from us. (Dancing with Owen, it turned out, was much easier than dancing with Ken. Ken claimed it was because I was getting to be more practiced, but I strongly suspect it was mostly because Owen is the better dancer.)

"That was a fun evening," Mum pipes up. "Even though Rilla deserted us for most of it." She grins at me, clearly teasing.

"You said it was fine!" I insist, feeling a bit defensive.

"It _was_ fine," Dad assures me, eye a-twinkle. "But it was also an unusual experience to go looking for your daughter and find her chatting to the Queen of Holland."

That raises eyebrows all around the room.

"She was nice," I mutter.

"Hardly the point," remarks Joy, barely hiding her amusement.

I glare at her and pointedly turn back to the TV, ignoring my family's good-natured laughter.

On the screen, there's an aerial shot of the Buckingham Palace ballroom. The guests line the walls, while a small Owen and Leslie sweep over the dancefloor, as easy and graceful as could possibly be. Ken and I are much more static in our dancing, mostly swaying on the spot with our heads close together, while his parents dance circles around us. As I watch, TV-me raises her head and beams up at Ken, to be rewarded by a brilliant smile from him.

Sitting in front of the TV and remembering that dance, I feel as myself smiling as well. To say it was a fun evening is a bit of an understatement. In truth, it felt… very, very meaningful.

"So… are you still going to scratch out the eyes of anyone who dares ask whether you're going to marry the man?" asks Di conversationally, wriggling her eyebrows.

In the first fraction of a second, instinct tries to kick in, honed as it was in year of fielding questions I had no answers for and didn't _care_ to answer either. The natural reaction would be to wave off the question or return a barb of my own to throw my sister off the scent, but… to be honest, the question that once terrified me now feels ludicrously harmless.

Looking at Di, I shrug and smile.

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Bridge over Troubled Water' (written by Paul Simon, released by Simon & Garfunkel in 1970)._

* * *

 _To Mammu:_  
 _Hello! I'm glad to hear from you again, because I was a little concerned there. It's a relief to hear that the situation is tentatively getting back to normal for you and that work is slowing down as well. That second wave seems to be a real possibility, but for now, we all need a breather, so I'm doubly glad you're getting those holidays. I absolutely understand your worry for your parents, too. Mine aren't part of the high risk group (yet), but my grandparents certainly are and I'm very concerned about them as well. My grandpa seems to be dealing with the restrictions relatively fine, but my grandma (the more active of the two) is definitely struggling with having to stay at home and no-one coming to see her. It's sensible, but it still sucks._  
 _Maternity leave? Yay! Congratulations! :D I'm absolutely chuffed for you and I wish you all the very best for this exciting time! I bet you can't wait to meet the little one! (There really must be something in the water at the moment._ So _many women around me are having babies!)_  
 _P.S. Patrick Dempsey as Gilbert? Now, there's a thought... ;)_

 _To Rilla (who reviewed over on_ Through the Dark Clouds shining _):  
Wrong story, I know, but you mentioned in your review that you're folliwing this one as well, so I hope you see this :). I wanted to say a huge thank you for your lovely review. I adore each and every review I get, but it's always an extra treat when a comment on an old story pops up, so yours was very special. I'm really happy you enjoyed _Dark Clouds _so. I did_ a lot _of research for that story, because I wanted to capture the horror of war as best as possible, without glorifying or trivializing what war truly meant (and means). For you to say that the story brought this alive for you really means a lot to me and I'm grateful you took the time to write your comment. Thank you for your kind words - and, though very different, I do hope you enjoy this new_ Twist _chapter as well :).  
_

 _To Guest:  
Your all time favourites? Wow, that's very high praise. Thank you! I'm very happy to hear you enjoyed both stories so much and do hope the next couple of chapters will meet with your approval as well. I have quite some twists up my sleeve in the forseeable future, which should hopefully make things interesting. Do let me know what you think!  
_

 _To Anne Shirley:  
I'm sorry to hear you're having a Brian Situation and I hope you find a way to resolve it soon! In happier news, your brooch sounds lovely and I'm glad Rilla inspired you to wear it a new way. (If you want a glimpse at Rilla's brooch, google "Empress Alexandra Yellow Diamond Rose Brooch" and something should come up.) Those old saris are, I'm sure, scrumptious and I imagine it was a real experience to wear them! (Though like you, I would have been absolutely terrified of one tearing.)_ _  
Technically, Leslie counts as a commoner, because as the daughter of a peer, she only had a courtsey before her marriage and not a title of her own. The same goes for Uncle Al's first wife Caroline and Ken's grandfather Theodore. All three of them were born into aristocratic families though, so not totally "normal". If we're looking at royal spouses with a non-aristocratic background, we have Uncle Al's second wife Kim and Katie's husband Adam (with only Kim gaining a title through marriage, because the royals are misogynistic like that). Plus, I imagine one of Great-Aunt Tanya's many husbands was probably a real commoner who started out as her chaffeur or something ;)._ _  
(In Germany, when one gains a PhD, the title of "Dr" gets added to your passport and it's regarded as a sign of politeness to always address someone as "Dr Whatever" until said person specifically asks you not to. It is common among two PhD holders to leave out the title, but only then. Some people think it's ridiculous to use the title, but being in the last phase of my own PhD and knowing how much work it is, I don't think it's wrong to acknowledge all that hard work.)_ _  
Ah, you're sweet! You're absolutely right that the fairy tale isn't what makes the romance, it's mutual respect and working together to achieve shared happiness. I feel that respect is key to any relationship, not just a romance, and I try to infuse that idea into my stories. To use your example, I think the trick is to find a partner who doesn't laugh at your bad dancing, but dances badly with you. Oh, and if you find yourself someone who looks at you with the same my awe my two year old nephew looks at a tractor, you should be fine ;)._


	77. But you can make decisions, too

_Aberdeenshire, Scotland  
January 2015_

 **But you can make decisions, too**

There's a bang, the rifle jerks in my hands and something feathery flutters from the sky.

"Great shot!" declares Persis and beams at me.

I lower the rifle and stare at the feathery heap on the ground.

Persis marches over to the… the _thing_ , deftly picks it up and holds it aloft by the neck. It's a brown and grey speckled bird with a white face and a distinct red beak. It's also undeniably dead.

"A red-legged partridge," announces Persis and offers it to me.

I take a step back.

Persis laughs. "It's okay, you can take it. It won't suddenly come back alive."

Yeah. I'm not wholly convinced I wouldn't prefer if it did.

Reluctantly, I walk closer to where Persis is standing, but still don't take the bird from her. It feels… odd, knowing that I fired the shot that killed it.

"We'll have them for dinner tonight," Persis decides as she drops the bird into a basket that already holds her own kills. "Cook has a delicious recipe for roasted partridge."

Cook has many a delicious recipe, as I can attest. Still, this whole business of shooting and eating birds… It's a weird feeling and not only because I know Carl would most definitely disapprove.

"We breed them," Persis informs me suddenly. When I look at her, I find her peering at me closely. "Their purpose it to be hunted and until it happens, they live a happy life on the moors. You don't need to feel bad for them. They have it better than those poor chickens bred for supermarket meat that never see the light of day in their lives."

I sigh. "I know, I know. It's just…" I break off and gesticulate toward the basket of dead birds.

The thing is, I _do_ know. The arguments aren't new to me (and I'm sure I've employed them against Carl before) and I know that Persis, who loves all animals, would never be cruel to any animal she encountered. It's just… the rifle suddenly feels very unwieldy in my hands.

"It's really very natural to hunt for your own food and we do eat everything we shoot," Persis promises. "Or, if we can't eat it all, we give some of to staff or tenants to eat. It's not wasted."

I nod slowly. "I didn't think it was. It's more the idea of having, you know, _shot_ another being that takes some getting used to."

"You _will_ get used to it," Persis soothes and pats my shoulder. "You're such a natural with that rifle that it would be a shame to miss you on future hunting trips."

I look down at the rifle in my hand. "Maybe I should still practice some more on the clay pigeons before coming out with you again."

Persis shrugs. "Sure, if you want to. But you don't need any practice. I've never seen anyone shoot with such accuracy the first time they're out on the moors."

Well.

I'm not actually sure that's a skill I'm too wild about possessing…

Seeing my indecision, Persis takes the rifle from me and offers me a smile. "We'll take it slowly," she assures me. "No deer stalking for you this winter."

"Please not!" I feel my eyes widen in horror at the prospect. Birds are one thing (I mean, they're _birds_ ), but I'm not sure I could stomach shooting an actual deer, no matter what Persis says about my supposed skills with a rifle. Besides, Izzie would never forgive me for shooting Bambi's Mum!

Persis grins. "Baby steps."

Realising she's just teasing me (didn't Ken once say something about her not hunting deer either, many moons ago?), I stick out my tongue at her, making her grin wider.

She squeezes my arm companionably, before casting a critical look at the basket and deciding, "I think that'll do for today. Shall we head back?"

"Yes. Good idea," I reply, trying not to sound too eager.

I don't think I'm fooling Persis, but she just allows herself an amused smile while signalling for the two gillies to come closer. Gillies, I've learned, are Scottish hunting attendants who are especially useful for rookies such as me. I'm only too glad to watch Persis hand our rifles to one of them, while the other one picks up the basket with the dead birds and carries it over to the cars.

Up here in the Highlands, the royals use cars they wouldn't be seen dead in when in London. The main object is sturdiness, which translates to a lack of speed, comfort and amenities. The mud-splattered Land Rovers master the uneven ground easily, but a comfortable drive it is not. It's not at all helped by the fact that Persis is not the most careful of drivers. She doesn't slow down unless she absolutely has to and a pothole definitely isn't reason enough for her. (After we've driven through a particularly large one, I look in the mirror to catch the eye of her PPO on the backseat and see him wince.)

Thanks to Persis's driving, we make it back to Balmoral Castle in record time and pile out of the cars.

"Do you want to go shooting again tomorrow, Ma'am?" one of the gillies asks Persis.

She looks at me slyly. "I would, but… maybe we'll just go for a ride instead?"

"Yes," I agree. "I'd like that."

The Scottish Highland Ponies are as sturdy and sure-footed as the Land Rovers are and their disposition is both gentle and brave. Riding them through the spectacular scenery of the Scottish Highland is something I'll never grow tired of. Since coming here after New Year, I've gone riding almost every day, with various members of the royal family to accompany me. (Twice, Ken and I managed to sneak away on our own and let me tell you that as far as romantic outings are concerned, riding through the Highlands is up there. _Outlander_ wasn't lying about that particular detail.)

"So, riding it is," decides Persis as we walk towards the castle. "Do you want to ride up to the pastures and check in on the cows?"

The royals breed Highland Cows and I'm unashamed to admit that I'm perfectly enamoured with the calves. They're shaggy, fluffy and incredibly cute. I'm usually indifferent about cows, but you'd need a heart of steel not to enjoy observing the Highland Cow Babies playing in the snow.

Persis raises her eyebrows questioningly and I grin in answer. She laughs. "That's decided then," she declares, before looking down at her watch. "It should be time for tea now, but afterwards, do you want to try your hand at plucking the partridges?"

Not deigning that with an answer, I simply throw her a withering look. She laughs again, completely unconcerned, and reaches out to hold open the door for me.

Balmoral Castle, I've found, is the royal family's most rustic home. From the outside, it looks like any self-respecting fairy tale castle ought to, complete with towers and turrets, but on the inside, there's nothing fancy or gilded or shiny about it. It was clearly furnished with comfort in mind, with lots of squishy sofas, snuggly blankets and merrily burning fireplaces. The design itself is heavy on wood and tartan. Honestly, there's tartan _everywhere_. The curtains are tartan, the upholstery is tartan, the blankets are tartan and even the _carpets_ are tartan. It's not exactly pretty, but I guess at least it's consistent.

(In addition to being not at all subtle about the tartan, Balmoral is also bloody freezing, despite the fireplaces and the copious amount of electric heaters dotted around the rooms. Ken and I had to come up with several new and inventive ways to keep warm at night, some of which involved a whole lot of clothing and some of which… didn't.)

Having been informed by a footman called Geoffrey that Ken and his parents are in Owen's private study, Persis and I stroll along the tartan carpeted-hall to the southern end of the castle. Upon reaching the office, I knock and, after Owen calls to enter, open the door.

The moment I do, I know something is the matter. I can't put my finger on what it is, but something feels… different. There's a kind of tension in the room, only I can't tell if it's a good or a bad one.

Persis doesn't seem to notice. "Rilla and I went partridge shooting and she's such a natural!" she announces brightly. "She took a bird down on – what was it? Your fifth try?"

"Something like that," I reply distractedly as I survey the room.

Leslie had her back to us when we entered, but now she turns and gives us a half-smile. Ken is standing by the desk and as I look at him, I notice that there's an undercurrent of excitement in him. He almost seems to be vibrating with the anticipation of… of what?

"That's lovely, darling," Owen tells Persis and I snap my eyes over to him. His expression is perfectly kind and amiable, as it so often is, and it's not giving anything away.

"Come on," he encourages Leslie, turning towards her. "Let's leave them to it."

Let's leave _who_ to it?

I just open my mouth to ask (even though I have a pretty good idea), when Leslie nods and pushes away from the window sill. The smile stays on her face as she walks past us to hold open the door

"Let's go, Monkey," Owen prompts Persis and holds out a hand for her to take. "We'll find Teddy and have some tea. Rilla and Ken have something to talk about. They'll join us later."

For a moment, I think Persis will protest, but then she nods and allows him to lead her from the room. When they pass me, Owen stops briefly and puts a hand on my shoulder. It only lasts a second, but at the gesture, there's a nervous flutter in my stomach.

 _Something_ is clearly going on.

I hear the door close behind Ken's family and look over at him almost automatically. He's all wired up and when my eyes find his, I can see that they're shining with excitement. It looks like whatever is happening is something good.

"Hello, love," he greets me, his lips curving into a smile.

Stretching out his arms, he almost bounces over to me and clasps both my hands tightly between his.

"Hello?" I reply tentatively, the word coming out as more of a question. When I smile at him, he grins back widely, before raising our entwined hands and pressing kisses to both of mine.

"You're very happy," I observe, feeling myself being caught up in his excitement.

He swings our clasped hands from side to side and nods, looking rather like an overeager puppy. It's not a simile that enters my mind often with regards to Ken, making this… _situation_ all the more remarkable.

"What happened to make you so happy?" I query, inclining my head slightly. I'm still a bit confused, to be honest, but his apparent joy draws a smile from me instinctively.

"It hasn't happened _yet_ ," Ken replies, sounding positively chuffed. "But it will happen _soon_."

Oh?

My mind is running into overdrive, trying to figure out what he's talking about. There's a possibility, but… I mean, I wouldn't want to assume…

"Care to enlighten me?" I ask, making sure to keep my tone light and teasing, so as not to give away the fact that my heart is suddenly beating in my throat.

Ken smiles his most brilliant smile and the heart in my throat beats twice as fast.

Could it be…? _Can_ it be…?

"I'm going to Cyprus," he announces happily.

My heart plummets back down in a fraction of a second.

"Wh-what?" I manage.

"I'm going to Cyprus," he repeats, clearly oblivious to my organs riding rollercoaster in my body.

I blink at him, trying to wrap my head around what he's saying.

"Why… why Cyprus?" I stutter.

Whatever I thought – hoped – he'd say, _Cyprus_ wasn't it. The mention of it came so out of the blue that I can't seem to move past it. I'm just… utterly, utterly confused.

Ken laughs good-naturedly. "I'm not making sense to you, am I?"

"Not particularly, no," I confirm, frowning. "Are you going on some kind of tour?"

It would be the obvious answer, except he's never once been even half as excited about a royal tour as he's now. I just can't see how –

"No tour." Ken shakes his head, still distinctly amused. "By Cyprus, I really mean RAF Akrotiri."

My heart, so light and fluttery just moments ago, settles like led in my stomach.

"RAF Akrotiri," I repeat, but it's no question. If I was confused before, I now see with sudden clarity. I might not have all the details yet, but there are a whole lot of implications to what he's saying and I don't think I like even one of them.

"It's an air force base in Cyprus," Ken adds helpfully, as if I hadn't figured that out on my own.

"And you're going there… to train?" I ask slowly. "I thought you were done with training."

After all, when his Tornado training finished last May, it was communicated both to me _and_ the world that Ken's active military days were over. He was allowed to keep the link intact with his part-time job at the base in High Wycombe, but that was just desk work. No-one said anything about him taking up flying again!

"I _am_ done with training," confirms Ken. "I'm going there to do the job I was trained for."

The job he was trained for?

He doesn't mean…

He couldn't _possibly_ mean…

"RAF Akroriti is the base from which the missions to Iraq are flown," explains Ken, still looking far, far too chipper considering the situation.

Iraq.

The very name of the place invokes a sense of unease. There's a sudden feeling of cold within me, starting at my very core and spreading out into the tips of my fingers.

Iraq means… war.

He's telling me he's going to war.

(And here I thought that he might have planned to… What a fool I was! Stupid, foolish Rilla!)

"You're going to Cyprus to fight in a war?" I clarify, my own voice sounding all wrong. This is so… surreal.

Ken shrugs. "It's hardly a war. We're flying missions against terrorists."

"Bombing missions," I amend. I haven't paid much attention to it, but even I didn't miss the news of the British government authorising bombing missions to be flown against terrorists in Iraq last autumn. I did read about it, I just never thought it would become in any way relevant to my own life.

"I'll probably do more reconnaissance work than actual air strikes," Ken tells me. There's a half-smile on his lips, trying to convince me that this is no big deal, but for once, I'm past being soothed by his smiles.

"Like that makes a difference!" I blurt out.

The smile slowly slips from his lips. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it makes no difference," I repeat, more hotly this time. "The outcome is the same, whether you're the one scouting out the target or the one dropping the actual bombs."

"And what would that outcome be?" asks Ken. His voice is still calm, but there's a sudden edge to it. He's not smiling anymore.

I draw my hands back from his hold and he lets them go without resistance. Deprived of the warmth of his skin, my fingers are colder still. For a moment, I think I can once more feel the icy steel of the rifle in my hands.

"People die." My voice is toneless.

" _Terrorists_ die," Ken corrects immediately.

"How can you know? How can you be _sure_?" I implore.

"We have good reconnaissance and –" Ken begins.

I cut across him. "But you can't be sure. You're up there and they're down on the ground and you can't be _sure_ they're all terrorists or extremists or whatever."

"We can be _reasonably_ sure," Ken insists. "Yes, there's a residual risk, but there always is. On balance, the benefits of a successful air strike outweigh the relatively small risk of reconnaissance being not completely accurate."

"How can you say that?" I ask, incredulous. "How can you say that when there are human lives on the line? Innocent lives, possibly?"

"How can _you_ say _that_?" he shoots back, narrowing his eyes. "How can we risk _not_ to intervene what with everything happening in Iraq and Syria right now? Have you looked at the papers recently? Talk about innocent lives being lost!"

I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my skin. "So, now the ends justify the means?"

Ken nods curtly. "Sometimes, they do. This is a war –"

"You said it wasn't a real war!" I interrupt him.

Annoyance flickers over his face. "It's _akin_ to a war," he amends. "It's a particularly dirty type of war and yes, it needs to end. If us flying air strikes helps bring the slaughter and abduction to an end then yes, the ends do justify the means."

"At all cost?" I challenge.

"At a reasonable cost," Ken parries.

"And who decides what is reasonable?" I want to know. " _You_?"

He clenches his teeth. "In this case, the British parliament did when they authorised the air strikes."

"And what gives _them_ the right?" I demand.

"The British public," he replies, irritated. "But we're not discussing our political system right now."

"No," I agree tightly. "We're not."

"We're also not discussing the ethics of these air strikes either," Ken continues. "Look, I know you grew up in a family of hippies and peaceniks and that you can't help those early influences, but –"

" _Hippies and peaceniks_?" I splutter, indignant.

Ken jerks his head impatiently. "I'm fond of your family. You know I am. But you can't deny that their aversion to anything military-related isn't wholly reasonable."

"Oh? And _you're_ the judge of that?" I ask cuttingly.

"I'm not judging anyone," Ken defends himself.

"Could have fooled me," I mutter darkly

"I'm merely saying that the world isn't black and white and that sometimes, military intervention is necessary to prevent a disaster from happening," Ken argues. "Just look at history."

"You're _not_ dredging up World War II to justify you running off to play soldier!" I snap.

Ken's eyes turn to slits. "I'm hardly _playing_ soldier. I was trained to do this. This is my duty."

I scoff. "It's _not_!"

"What did you say?" For a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, even forgetting to glare at me.

"It's not your duty to go off and fly airplanes in Cyprus," I clarify. "Your duty is here, to do your _real_ job."

"This _is_ one of my real jobs. I'm a soldier, as much as I'm a prince," Ken insists.

"So tell me, how many fighter pilots are there in the air force?" I want to know. "And how many future kings does this country have?"

He swallows heavily, probably in an attempt to calm himself down. "That's beside the point. I was trained to fly these planes and it's my duty to stand with my fellow soldiers against this threat to humanity."

"Nonsense!" I hiss. "You're not doing this because of duty or humanity or whatever. You're doing it because you _want_ to. You _want_ to go off and fight. At least own that. At least admit it's because you _want_ to!"

"And you come off your high horse and stop pretending you care about the morality of war," Ken snarls. "You just don't want me to go."

" _No_!" I burst out. "I _don't_ want you to go! And if that makes me selfish, so be it!"

We're standing nose to nose, staring at each other. My chin is jutted upwards in challenge, Ken's eyes are narrowed to slits. For a few endless seconds, neither of us moves.

Finally, he lowers his head, raising his hands to rub his face. I keep my stance, just to be sure.

"It's not selfish of you," Ken admits, face still lowered. "I know this is asking a lot of you, but… but yes, I want to do this. I _want_ to! I want to finally feel useful, to no longer feel like those years of training were wasted. So many people put effort and time into training me and I don't want it to feel like it was just to satisfy the whims of a useless little princeling."

I bite my lip to keep from asking whether him going to war is _not_ to satisfy the whims of a useless little princeling. Instead, I ask, "How long?"

A pause. "A usual tour of duty takes six months."

I draw in a sharp breath.

Six bloody months.

"I know it's long." Ken lowers his hands, his eyes seeking out mine. "And I know it's a lot, but I feel like I need to do this. I'm asking for your support –"

I cut across him. "My support? My _support_?" My voice cracks.

A fine line appears between Ken's brows.

"I haven't been anything _but_ supportive! For years, all I did was sit back and support you!" I spit out. "I supported you when you were hiding from your life in New York, I supported you when you were hiding _me_ from your life, I supported you when you went back to England and left me there, I supported you when you tried to figure out your relationship with your parents, I supported you when you finished your training and I supported you when you were struggling with your past. I supported, supported, supported and I never got much support back! How much do you think I have left to _give_?"

"I don't think that's fair," replies Ken tightly. "Last year –"

" _Last year_?" I mock. "Last year is increasingly starting to feel like a fluke. Some sort of… pretty but unrealistic dream. I mean, did last year even _happen_?"

"Of course it happened," snaps Ken.

"Could have fooled me!" I snarl. "Right now, it feels like we're right back where we started! You're making decisions that affect both of us without so much as telling me there even _is_ a decision to be made and the end result is you fannying about doing what you want to so, while I'm supposed to wait and pine for you and be bloody _supportive_."

Ken grits his teeth. "Now you're generalising."

"Sure I am! Your behaviour follows the same old pattern every damn time, so you can be bloody well sure I'm generalising! I only regret I ever expected anything different from you. If I hadn't allowed you to lull me in last year, maybe you couldn't have blindsided me _again_!" I positively fling my words at his feet and as I do, I can see him flinch.

"I didn't want to tell you beforehand in case nothing came of it." He clearly trying to sound reasonable, but I'm not about to allow that. He doesn't get to play the sensible one and pretend I'm some crazy person. Not when it's _him_ who's in the wrong!

"Even your excuses are the same as always," I accuse, jabbing a finger at him. "I was sick of them the first time around and do you want to _guess_ how I feel about them now?"

Ken takes a deep breath and doesn't answer.

"I'm… I don't even have words anymore for how that makes me feel." I'm laughing now, but it's pure bitterness. "I'm so… so sick of it. I'm so _done_!"

The words hang between us, glaring and painful and… dangerous. Because now I've said them, I can't take them back. And I'm not sure I want to.

Silence settles between us, only pierced by my heavy breathing. Ken, on the other hand, stands very, very still. His eyes are boring into mine, but for once, I can't tell what he's thinking.

"Look, it's just for a few months," he implores. "I know it won't be easy, but it's not forever and when I come back, we'll get married."

Suddenly, I feel very, very cold.

I came here thinking that maybe _this_ was where we were heading. I came in here knowing that if he were to ask, I'd say yes.

But he didn't ask.

It takes a long moment until I've ordered my thoughts, but when I speak, my voice is as cold as the feeling filling every part of me. "I can't stop you from making decisions. I'm apparently not even worthy enough to have a part in the decisions you make, but I _can_ make my own decisions. And marriage – well, you'd do well to remember that it takes two for that."

* * *

 _The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'And So It Goes' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989)._

* * *

 _To Rilla:_  
 _Yes, I saw you've read_ A part of you belongs to me _as well! I keep promising I'll translate that one day, but so far, time is not proving to be forthcoming. I'm glad to hear you enjoyed it as well! Also, let me tell you, I absolutely feel you with regards to having to wait for installments. There's a reason I generally don't touch TV series until the very last season is done because that way, I can watch them in one go and be at peace ;). In that vein, I'd absolutely love to write and post more than one chapter a week! Problem is, this pesky boss of mine demands I actually_ work _for my money, which is seriously cutting into my fanfic time. I'll let you know when I've figured out a way to solve this conundrum ;).  
I'm not offended at all and you were in no way rude, so please don't apologise. In fact, I find it's an interesting discussion, to compare how history affects the viewpoint of people to this day. For me, _Rilla of Ingleside _was my first succinct introduction to World War One, so my first structured approach to it was from the Canadian POV, which means it feels natural to me, even if that makes my ancestors 'the enemy'. I also don't know the first thing about how these ancestors experienced the war, so I'm not compelled to adopt their experiences and way of thinking as mine. These people lived in the same country I do today (or, well, a similar country), but they aren't me and I'm not them. I guess I don't identify personally with the German people who lived during WW1, so it's really neither here nor there from which nation's POV I look at the war when writing. I've also written original stories set during WW1 with German protagonists and that was fine as well (only much harder to research, because a lot of our sources from then went up in flames in the 1940s). Now, WW2 quite another beast and that's much harder to tackle as a German, even today, but with WW1 I feel fairly comfortable adopting different perspectives of looking at it. I'm not sure if this is making sense, but that's my best stab at explaining the thoughts that go into it.  
Say Hi to your sister from me! :)_


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